Page 126 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“Oh, you’re swearing already?” I murmur, dragging the spatula handle down again, circling the tip just outside her entrance. “And I haven’t even started licking you properly.”
She shudders, her hips twitching as if her body answering before her mouth can form a thought.
“Let’s see how much you really like it.”
I press the handle in.
Just the tip at first. Her breath catches like I’ve knocked something loose inside her. And then it slides in deeper, slow and easy, coated in how fucking ready she is for me.
Her legs fall wider apart on instinct.
“Goddamn,” I breathe, staring down at where she’s swallowing it. “You’re taking it so well.”
Her head tips back, lips parted, chest rising unevenly. Her hands grip the counter with white-knuckles, trying to hold onto something—anything—as I thrust the spatula in again, a little deeper this time.
“You like that, baby?” I rasp, voice low, rough. “Like me fucking you with a kitchen tool while you drip all over my counter?”
She whimpers, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet mine before they fall shut again.
“That’s my girl,” I growl, dragging it back out slowly, teasing her edge before pushing it back in with deliberate, shallow strokes. “You don’t need fingers. You don’t need cock. You just need me to ruin you however I want.”
I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then another, drop my mouth to her clit while still working the spatula in and out of her—lazy, rhythmic thrusts that drive her body wild with want.
When my tongue flicks her clit, she gasps like I lit a fuse under her skin.
And then I suck—gently at first, then with more pressure—and her whole body arches off the island like she’s about to fly apart.
“Oh my God, Lucian?—”
“Just me, baby,” I mutter against her, nibbling gently around her clit, then licking a slow circle before dragging my tongue flat across the top. “You feel this? You feel how fucking drenched you are? That’s all for me.”
I thrust the handle in again, slow and deep this time, and her breath stutters into a moan that sounds as if she’s unraveling right in front of me.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur, lips still on her. “Fucking trembling around a spatula, sweetheart. That pretty little pussy’s clenching like it can’t decide if it wants more or if it’s already too much.”
She nods, desperate, panting. “Lucian—please?—”
“Please, what?” I pause the thrusts, hold her open with one hand, and give her clit a slow, teasing lick. “Please make you come while you’re stuffed full with a kitchen tool like the good, dirty girl you are?”
“Yes,” she cries, voice wrecked.
I grin, filthy and proud. “Then hold still for me.”
And she tries.
God, she tries. Her thighs tremble around my head, hips twitching under my hands. My tongue circles her clit, again and again, flicking and sucking while I work the spatula in slow, deep strokes. Her breathing turns uneven, erratic—each inhale broken, each exhale laced with something between a gasp and a whimper.
“Lucian,” she moans, back arching, hands reaching blindly for the edge of the counter. Her knuckles go pale. Her legs tighten around me like she’s falling, and I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.
“Yeah, baby,” I rasp, pressing a kiss just above her clit. “Say my name like that. Let me hear how good it is.”
She does. Over and over.
“Lucian, Lucian, oh my God, Lucian?—”
It’s fucking music.
I thrust the handle again, watching her body react to it—how she clenches, how her muscles contract like they’re begging for more, how her hips lift into it like she can’t help herself.
