Page 193 of Come Back to Me

He hisses at the sight of me there and, though in the past, I’ve been crap at head, I decide that his value of my art deserves a 110% effort.

(Even if that’s mathematically impossible.)

(He deserves the impossible.)

His pupils are blown when my hands stroke over his thighs, nails dragging along them before I shuffle closer. I don’t reach for his zipper though, just lock my eyes on his as I settle my mouth over the thick length that’s clearly visible through his pants.

When I breathe on him, sending hot air through the fabric, he jolts and moans my name.

E1.

Oh, fuck. My name is music when he says it like that.

Loving the note and wanting to hear more of it, I repeat the action, making sure to anoint each inch as I go from base to tip with my hot breath.

By the time I get to the head, his fingers are scraping through my hair, tugging at it like I’m tormenting him.

Confidence buoyed, I snag the zipper with my teeth and swirl my tongue around it.

“Jesus, Tee,” he croaks.

Surprised that I’m affecting him this much, I blink. Then, not wanting the momentum to drop, I let my tongue fall to the zip and flutter it along the metal tines as I liberate him.

“You’re making me so fucking hard right now, baby girl.”

His cock is lodged deep inside the crotch of his pants, so he doesn’t flop out, which I’m kinda glad about because I don’t think I could make that look sexy. So instead, eyes still on him, I unfasten the button at the waistband, then pull him free.

“Fuck, Tee. The fuck are you doing to me? I’m so close to blowing?—”

“Over my face?” I tease huskily.

“Don’t even—” He snarls when the spit I’ve gathered in my mouth, I let fall onto his tip. “Holy fuck!”

As gravity helps us both, his hips buck and his fingers tighten to the point of pain.

Oh.

I didn’t know I liked that but I do.

Shuddering in delight, I work up more saliva, clued in enough to know that sloppy head is the best kind of head.

“Sweet fuck. I need this, baby. You’re so goddamn good at this?—”

Using my hand, I spread the spit I already coated him in then pop the tip into my mouth. He hisses as he comes into contact with more heat. One thing a musician’s good at is spit control and he’s about to reap the rewards.

My tongue flutters over the vein at the back of his shaft, making sure that I trace every inch and anoint it with more wet heat. His hips buck in shock as I suckle each part, hard enough that, were it on his neck, he’d have a bunch of hickeys.

(I’m not against leaving love bites on his cock.)

“Jesus Christ.” He groans hoarsely. “Time out, Christy, time the fuck out!”

Ignoring him, I make it to the base, where I nip that little patch between his dick and balls before I suck in one and then the other, rolling them around my mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” he demands, fingers tugging and pulling at my hair.

My body responds to the stimuli as I palpate the ball in my mouth, squeezing it as I suck down.

“FUCK! I’m going to come. You need to?—”

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