Page 45 of Just a Friend for the Lion
She bites her bottom lip, and that does things to me.Dangerous things.
Then she slides the silky fabric up—higher and higher—to her waist and the full picture punches the breath out of my lungs.
Thigh-highs. Not tights.
Miles of soft golden skin, curves made to be worshipped, and a little scrap of lace doing a pathetic job covering her sweet, dripping pussy.
It’s already soaked.
Her scent crashes into me, thick and sweet, honey and heat and fucking destiny.
“Jesus, MJ.”
Her eyes sparkle, teasing.
“You like what you see?”
“I’m about to bury my face in it. What do you think?”
She laughs—and moans—as I lean in, brushing my stubble against the soft skin of her inner thigh.
I press a kiss there.
Then another.
Then one right over that damp little scrap of lace.
She whimpers.
“Smell so damn good, Kitten,” I growl, voice muffled as I nose her panties aside. “That for me?”
She nods, breathless. “Yes. That’s for you, Carter. Just you.”
“Damn right it is.”
I run my tongue along her slit, slow and deep, tasting her.
My growl is pure possession.
“Good girl.”
She arches.
Grips my hair.
And when I flick her clit with the flat of my tongue, she shatters.
It’s everything.
Her moans.
Her shaking thighs.
The way she whispers my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I eat her like a starving man.
Messy. Growly. Hungry.
