Page 65 of Resistance Training
Yes. Sir.
He’s staring at my nether region, and I am just now realizing that I’m naked from my waist to just above the knees.
Naked, with my arousal dripping down the inside of my thigh.
Frowning, he appears to be thinking things through. He grunts again, licks his lips, flicks at the stubble on his jaw, and says, “Fuck it.”
Brad lowers himself to his knees, very carefully. Pushes my knees apart, very slowly. Hooks my legs over his shoulders, decisively. Reaches under me to squeeze my ass with one hand, uses the thumb of his other hand to expose my clit, and then says, “You asked for it, Sparky.”
He proceeds to give me what I asked for.
With his beautiful mouth and his warm, skillful tongue.
The friction of his stubble against the skin of my inner thighs is heavenly, and I hope it scrapes me bad enough to leave me raw and pink.
He licks and swirls and flicks and sucks and fucks me with his tongue.
He says nothing with words, but his moan tells me I taste so good.
The way he pants and grunts as his tongue savors and taunts and pleasures me, I’m hearing that I’m so hot and wet and perfect.
But Brad Mitchell is exactly as determined and methodical as he was when he was massaging my ass, and I don’t even care because it only takes me about thirty seconds to come.
I orgasm all over his face for somewhere between a minute and a year.
Trembling and humming and then undulating and screaming. I hit high notes that I usually only hit singing ABBA songs when it’s raining. And he never stops squeezing my ass or fucking me with his tongue.
He doesn’t give me a hand to buck against or a moment to catch my breath when the orgasm subsides. Because he doesn’t let the orgasm subside. He grabs onto my hips and pulls me into him as he sucks hard on my clit and then punishes me inthe best, meanest way possible. He sits up taller, wrapping his arms around my waist, and tongue-fucks me from a whole new angle. This man is really giving my lady business the business. Relentlessly. It’s too much, but not really. I come again. This time convulsing, calling out his name the way I would if he’d burst through the door and pointed a gun at me.
Brad is breathing as hard as I am. This time he just holds me by my waist and lets me flop around until I am limp like a ragdoll.
He lowers me back down to the sofa, tries to catch his breath. I lick my lips and open my mouth to say that it’s my turn, but before I can form the words, he rolls back onto the rug, pulling me down with him. I’m on my hands and knees, and he slides down between my legs, on his back, the way a mechanic rolls under a car to work on the undercarriage, forcing me to mount his face and ride his tongue.
I curse and I curse at him, try to pull away at first, and then some part of my blissed-out brain reminds me that he could disappear at any minute. My blissed-out body finally remembers how it feels to be me. So I arch my back and roll my hips and comb my fingers through my long, wild hair like a fucking goddess. I curse at Brad some more until he silences me by sucking on my clit again, and he might never stop. I’m bucking my hips. It’s the most terrible, horrible, incredible thing I’ve ever felt. It’s antagonistic and so generous, abrupt and endless. He spanks me just once. A punctuation. A short, sharp, shock. This orgasm is a jolt, and then it keeps passing through me like an angry, sexy ghost.
And then I just kind of sink down to the floor.
Brad is no longer between my legs or under me at all.
I float into oblivion, drift in and out of consciousness, or maybe I’m dreaming and then I wake up again. Who knows how much time has passed. A throw blanket is covering my lowerbody. Brad is standing over me, holding a glass of water, looking like he totally didn’t just devastate me and give me a lower-body workout in the best, craziest way imaginable.
Bradley.
My Bradley.
All grown up and he should have to carry a license for that tongue of his because it is an assault weapon.
I am too tired to feel the jealous rage in my body, but I will wake up at four thirty in the morning, aching all over but mostly in my brain, wondering how many women he’s done that to. I don’t want to know. It makes me sad and furious and weirdly proud, but mostly ragey.
He’s wearing his beanie and probably has his phone in his back pocket. No sign of that third arm he was hiding in his jeans earlier. He crouches down and guides me to sit up so I can replenish my fluids. I think my undercarriage may be damaged, but she has no complaints. I take the glass of water and gulp it all down.
He stays there, crouching by me, until I finish. He holds his hand out, offering to take the glass from me, so I give it to him. He gets up and disappears to the kitchen. I hear water running and splashing. He’s washing the glass for me, and I bet he doesn’t just leave it in the sink either—he’ll place it on the drying rack. It’s considerate of him, but it has nothing to do with feelings. He isn’t doing it because he cares about me—that’s just how he is.
When he walks back out, he stops a few feet away from me.
“Well. I think I’ve learned my lesson, Coach.”
“Don’t call me Coach. That will never happen again. It shouldn’t have happened. No one can know that it happened?—”
