Page 40 of Overdose
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless. I’m still wearing the aftershocks of his mouth between my thighs.
He steps toward the door, hand on the knob but before opening it, he looks at me again. This time, serious. Jaw set, voice low.
“My number’s in your phone.”
A pause.
“Call me if anything happens.”
I nod once, already bracing for the shift in air when he leaves.
But then he pauses. Looks at me with that tilted head, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.
“That thing you said,” he murmurs. “About the spit.”
Oh god. Of course he brings it upnow.
I try to play it cool, but I can feel my ears heating. “It’s—uh—it’s not like athingthing. I just…” I trail off, then sigh, waving a hand like that’ll somehow make me sound less insane. “That night behind the warehouse, when you pulled that guy off me and spit on him? Yeah. That kinda burned itself into my brain. Like,whywas that hot? I don’t know. I don’t make the rules.”
He stares for a second, then barks a laugh. A real one. Rough, surprised and totally unbothered.
One step. Then another, and suddenly he’s right in front of me again.
He grabs my jaw with one hand, fingers squeezing my cheeks just enough to make me feel like I’m about to get scolded and kissed at the same time.
“You should’ve said something sooner, baby,” he says, grinning like he’s about to ruin my life. “Could’ve made all your nasty little dreams come true.”
Then he spits—slow, lazy, right into my open mouth, and my soul straight-up leaves the chat.
I don’t even have time to be shocked before he crashes his mouth into mine—tongue and teeth and heat. It’s disgusting. It’s hot. I’m short-circuiting.
When he pulls back, he’s still grinning, thumb swiping across my lip.
“I’ll spit on you—inyou—whenever the fuck you want.”
My brain just bluescreened.
He steps back, finally heading for the door. I’m still rooted in place like an overheated iPhone.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing under my chin, rough and careful all at once.
“And Blair?”
“Yeah?”
Jesus Blair, you sound like a goddamn squeaky toy. Chill the fuck out.
“Lock your fucking door.”
Then he’s gone. And I’m standing there in his hoodie, tasting him on my lips, wondering how the hell that just happened.
Holy. Shit.
What the fuck just happened?
I’m standing barefoot in a shitty motel room that smells like stale fries and spilled soda, wearing a drug dealer’s hoodie like it’s a goddamn trophy. My thighs are still sticky with proof that he’s way too good with that mouth. My brain’s fried. My heartbeat’s tap-dancing in my chest like it’s training for the fucking Olympics.
I just got eaten out like a goddamn dessert course by a man with bruises on his ribs and sin carved into his skin and now he’s walking off into the night like this wasn’t the most unhinged, toe-curling, blackout-inducing orgasm I’ve ever had.
