Page 70 of Coco and the Misfits

I kneel between her spread legs. Maybe this isn’t the best move when you’re with a girl for the first time, but I just can’t resist. I lap at her and the keening sound she produces almost has me coming on the spot.

As sweet as she smells and looks, her pussy is the best dessert I’ve ever had. I dig my tongue into her, use my fingers to stroke her and she shakes, moaning. She gets wetter, her scent rising stronger, deeper. So quickly, she’s close to coming.

So responsive. So open to pleasure.

So of course I pull back before she finds her release. She gasps when I give her one last long lick and get up. “Ryder?”

I wrap an arm around her, straightening her up. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Yes…”

“Beg. Bet a little, darling. I want to hear you.”

‘Please,” she whimpers, “please, Ryder.”

“Fuck.” I turn her around. She has bitten her lower lip. It’s red and swollen. Her cheeks are flushed. “Want it a little rough? You’re so wet. Are you going into heat, maybe, little omega?”

But her expression shutters. Her eyes suddenly fill with tears as she shakes her head.

What is this? Did I happen to touch the edges of her wound? Her pain cuts into me.

“Let me taste your pain,” I breathe, feeling my control slipping. “Let me taste all of you.”

25

COCO

The feel of his tongue stroking me, his lips, and that damn silver ring, cool and hard against my most sensitive parts… it almost sends me over the edge.

But then he stops as if he senses it and pulls back.

I almost scream in frustration.

I’ve never had a lover do this to me—make me bow over, vulnerable and offering myself to them, only to bring me to the brink and then stop.

But then he turns me around and I find a pleased smirk on his handsome face.

He makes me beg.

No sooner have I said “please” than he jumps back into action. He all but carries me further into his apartment and… his dining table?

“You really don’t do things the normal way, do you?” I whisper, choking on a laugh as he grabs my hips and lifts me onto the table.

“Normal is overrated,” he whispers back and he’s so right. “I love your dress.”

“Thanks, oh?—”

He pulls it down, off my shoulders, down my chest and I lean back so he can take it off completely. “I love it off you. I love it folded on the sofa or in a pile on the floor.”

I snort. He lets it fall and I don’t even look at it. I look at him. “And what else do you love?”

“You in your cute underwear. And more out of it.”

I’m only wearing my bra and my boots now. When he bends and starts undoing my laces, I slap a hand over my mouth. I’m so torn between laughing and moaning with everything he does. He’s a vision, a naked, tattooed, pierced vision, bent over my heart-covered boots, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I thought you’d go for my bra first,” I admit when he pulls off one of my boots—and socks—and then the other.

“I don’t want anything distracting me when I get to your tits,” he informs me solemnly. He lets my second boot drop and leans over me, grinning. “Now show me.”

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