Page 84 of How to Lose at Love

So, so… “Oohh…” I moan. Pant. “Don’t stop, yes—right there, right there, yes…”

The best part of it is watching him, the top of his head his large hands holding me down. Spreading me. His nose, pressed into my body.

Shit…

I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—

“Oh fuck!” I moan like no one is listening. “Oh God, Dallas, fuck…”

He milks my orgasm for all it’s worth, sucking until I can no longer stand it, pushing his shoulders away from my body, hips and thighs and pussy trembling.

He licks me again.

Wipes his mouth on my inner thigh. “You taste so goddamn good.”

Do I?

I don’t think about my crotch that way; then again, I haven’t had anyone’s face down there, so I haven’t had to worry about what it tastes like.

He readjusts his big body on the bed, and where do you suppose my eyes go?

To the front of his boxer shorts, to the straining, hard dick pressing against the fabric, desperate to play peekaboo through the slit.

I don’t know what to say, how to act while we sit here, my body still coming down from the euphoric high of my orgasm.

Damn, that felt good.

Leaving my underwear pushed past my girl parts, Dallas trails the tip of his finger down to my knee, up to my hip, neither of us making any move to pull my panties back up, although…

“Ryann?”

“Ryann.” He says my name again until I look over at him at his spot on the bed; Dallas has repositioned himself, so he’s leaning against the headboard, pillow on his lap, eyes watching me intently as they’ve often been doing.

“Huh?”

“You said, ‘Wait,’ so I asked what you want me to do.”

I’m on the bed, still lying with my legs slightly parted, the entire daydream nothing but a figment of my own lustful imagination.

Cheeks hot, face flushed, I give my head a tiny shake.

“I kind of have to pee.”

Nice thing to blurt out.Real smooth and sexy.

Dallas gives me a berth to climb off the bed, scrambling for the pair of jeans I had on earlier in the evening, stepping into them so I’m not half-ass naked in the ha—

“Don’t bother,” he tells me. “Just stick your head out to see if the coast is clear. Everyone is probably in bed.”

Not likely. It’s still considerably early.

“Um, your brotherjustbusted in on us.” Everyone isnotasleep.

Still, I toss the jeans back to the floor. He has a point. If I’m not self-conscious enough to have pants on in front of him to begin with—I could have put on joggers or something—there’s no sense in throwing jeans on if I’m just going to come back here to take them off again, and the bathroomisdirectly across the hall…

I sneak out.

Pee, wash my face, and use whatever I can find in the cabinet as moisturizer, which is basic hand lotion. Whatever. When life hands you lemons—or in this case, when you’re stuck in a guy’s room with none of your own things—you make lemonade. You march back into the bedroom with your spine straight and chin up because you have nothing to be ashamed of except suddenly wanting what you shouldn’t be wanting.

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