Page 125 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I crash into her mouth—hot and filthy—kissing her like I’m making up for every second we wasted pretending this was casual. She moans into it, legs wrapping tight around my waist like she needs me pressed to her as much as I need to be there.
But I’m not done with her on the counter.
I scoop her up, make her gasp, and carry her the few steps to the kitchen island. Set her down like she belongs there. Like I’m about to make her forget her name.
Her tank top rides up as I bend, mouthing along her stomach, dragging the soft cotton higher with my teeth until her breasts spill free. No bra. Of course not, because she knows I like her bare.
She arches when my tongue brushes her nipple.
“Fuck,” I mutter against her skin. “You taste better than anything I’ve ever had in this kitchen.”
Her laugh is breathless. “You say that like you’ve ever cooked in here.”
“I’m cooking now, baby.”
I drop to my knees.
Her leggings? Gone in seconds. Peeled down her thighs like a present I’ve been waiting all week to unwrap.
No underwear.
Fuck me.
She’s glistening—wet and flushed and so ready for it I nearly groan just looking at her. I press a kiss to her thigh. Then the other. Slow. Teasing. My hands grip her hips, thumbs brushing over the curve where her skin turns slick.
When I nudge her knees apart and get my first look?
My brain short-circuits.
“Goddamn,” I breathe, hot against her skin. “Look at this perfect little cunt. All soaked for me. You wanted this while we were pretending to make dinner, didn’t you? My filthy girl sitting on the counter like a treat.”
She starts to say something—probably a smartass comment—but I lick a long, slow stripe through her folds, and she gasps, both hands flying to the edge of the island like she needs something to keep her grounded.
“Still bored?” I murmur, tongue circling her clit, then flicking it just enough to make her jerk.
Her head tips back, a raw sound escaping her throat. “Oh my God?—”
“Nope.” I grin. “Just me.”
I pull back for, eyes on hers, and grab the spatula from behind me beside the stove. Thick handle. Just the right shape.
She stares at me, breath hitching.
“You ever been teased with one of these before?” I ask, dragging the smooth, rounded handle up her thigh.
She shakes her head, biting her lip.
“Didn’t think so,” I whisper. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Letting me play with you however I want. Fuck, you like it dirty, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Her thighs spread wider when I run the spatula handle through her folds. Not deep. Just enough to feel her slickness coat it, gliding through the heat of her.
“Look how wet you are,” I murmur, eyes locked on her cunt. “Soaked and twitching just from a little kitchen toy. Bet you never thought your favorite utensil would be the spatula.”
She lets out a strangled sound, halfway between a moan and a laugh, then grabs the edge of the island again as I circle her clit with the handle. Slowly. Over and over. I’m not inside her, but I’m damn close, teasing her with the tip until her hips start rocking to meet it.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “Ride it, baby. Let me see how needy you get when you think I’m gonna stop.”
“I swear to God,” she gasps, voice cracking.
