Page 163 of How to Win the Girl

“But…”

I press my mouth against hers to quiet her. “Shh. Someone might walk in.”

Her back is pressed against the wall when I sink to my knees in front of her, raising her skirt and pulling down her panties. It’s easy to take one of her legs and lift it over my shoulder.

“Oh god,” she says for the second time. “What are you doing?”

“I want to make you feel good.” I repeat the same words she just uttered back to her, watching the expression on her face turn from surprised to shocked to pleased.

Her mouth tips into a slow smile. “If you insist.”

“I do. Now be quiet before someone walks through the door.”

As if I’d conjured the thought, the bathroom door flies open, followed immediately by heels clicking across the floor and going to the sink.

Must be a server.

We hear the sound of the soap dispenser.

I lick Daisy’s clit once.

Twice.

Three times.

When the water goes on, and the woman begins washing her hands, I suck that little bud, sucking and licking, Daisy’s hands gripping my shoulders for support—and to gain self-control.

I glance up to see her biting on her bottom lip.

Nostrils flared.

A blush crosses her cheeks.

I spread her pussy with my fingers to give myself more access to her sweet spot and go at it aggressively—more aggressive than when I went down on her at the fraternity house. This act of foreplay is a race against time. It’s not like we can stay in here all night.

I lick her as the woman in the bathroom blow-dries her hands, taking her sweet time doing so, the loud whirrrr from the air dryer is the perfect disguise when Daisy lets out a little moan.

An accident, I’m sure.

She’s purring like a cat.

Legs quiver.

My thumb rolls over her clit as I suck, lips covering her entire pussy, getting her soaking wet.

I want her panties soaked when I’m done, soaked from my lips and her own lust so she has to sit in it while we’re at the dinner table, a reminder I was between her thighs yet again.

Her pussy smells like baby powder.

Tastes like honey.

Sweet.

Perfect.

The woman must be looking at her reflection in the mirror because it’s gone quiet, but she hasn’t left the room. Then keys on a cell phone tapping. The telltale whoosh of a message being sent into cyberspace.

None of it distracts me.

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