Page 113 of The Overtime Kiss

She shudders, then shivers. “Oh my god,” she breathes as she wiggles.

I stand, meeting her eyes. “I’m going to eat your pussy. And you’re gonna tell me exactly how you like it. Or I’ll have to stop.”

Her eyes sparkle, lighting up like she’s just won the lottery. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Do it. Please,” she says, and the excitement is impossible to miss. My god, I’m so damn glad I was the guy at the bar inCozy Valley the night she almost got married. I’m so glad I was the one she shared her 1001 confessions with.

And I don’t want anyone else to have her. But those thoughts are too much for right now, so I jostle them out of the way to focus on the here and now.

I lick her again, savoring her, her taste mingling with the memory of the scotch on my tongue.

“Your mouth is so cold,” she says, but it comes out trembly, breathless. She doesn’t pull away.

I reach for the Popsicle on the plate and take a slow lick, making sure I coat the tip of my tongue with its coldness. Then I return to the wet paradise between her thighs. I press my tongue right up against her swollen clit. She practically jumps on the counter, moaning at the same time.

“Oh my god, it’s so cold and so good at the same time,” she gasps, her fingers curling in my hair, keeping me in place.

Yesssss.

That.

Right there. I want more of that. “Tell me what you want me to do,” I whisper against her pussy, holding back, making her work for it.

“Do it again,” she pleads, her voice barely above a breath.

I take the Popsicle back into my mouth, suck on it, let it melt over my tongue, then press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her clit.

She wiggles against me, but she doesn’t push me away. She pulls me closer, her thighs squeezing around my head, her breath catching.

“More,” she demands.

And I give it to her.

I bury my face between her thighs, licking, lapping, letting her ride my tongue as she trembles beneath me.

“Yeah, just like that. More of your tongue,” she urges, gripping my hair.

When her moans turn into long, helpless cries, I stop, wrenching away. “Say it,” I tell her—a firm demand.

She groans, twisting against the counter. “Lick me.”

“Good girl,” I say, then I give her a teasing flick of my tongue.

“Kiss me.”

I press my mouth to her pussy, soft and slow.

“Fuck me with your tongue.”

It’s my turn to groan salaciously, then I comply. But I do it with a pause here, a stop there—I make her say every filthy word describing what she wants me to do before I give her exactly what she’s begging for. Until she’s gripping my hair, writhing, gasping, throwing her head back and coming on my tongue.

By the time she’s done, I’m rock hard again.

I push to my feet, my chest heaving, my gaze locked on her. She looks wrecked and beautiful, her skin flushed, her lips swollen.

“What else is in that sex diary of yours?” I ask, reaching for the little red book on the counter but not opening it. I wait. “Can I look?”

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