Page 71 of Hometown Touchdown
“I swear to God,” he breathes, almost laughing but wrecked, “this is actual torture.”
I hum softly around him. His eyes roll back. “Fucccckkkk, Brynn.”
His groan is low and broken, and I swear it reverberates down my spine. “You’re just gonna sit there,” he pants, “being warm and soft and perfect, and pretend like this isn’t driving me fucking insane?”
I let him slip free slowly, lips wet and swollen. I glance up, my smile wicked. “Pretending nothing. You look amazing when you suffer.”
His eyes go black.
“Get over here,” he growls, hauling me to my feet. His mouth crashes into mine, his hands already on my ass, dragging me against the thick length of him. The kiss is filthy—tongue, teeth, all pent-up hunger. He grinds against my hip, desperate for more friction, and I feel just how badly he needs it.
“You want to play games, sweetheart?” he growls against my neck. “Game on.”
Knox backs me toward the bed, his hands confident, his mouth hot against my jaw, my throat, the edge of my collarbone. I feel each kiss like a spark, burning a trail down to where I already ache for him. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I go down with a soft gasp that gives me away completely. Mybra strap slides down my arm, barely clinging to decency, but nothing about this moment feels decent.
He drags his mouth lower, slower, his hands grazing the bare skin of my ribs like he’s trying to memorize every inch. When he reaches the waistband of my jeans, he pauses, breath ghosting across my stomach. His eyes flick up to mine, dark and intense.
“You still okay?” he asks, voice rough with restraint.
“Better than okay,” I whisper. “Please. I need you.”
That one word—please—ignites something in him. He undoes the button of my jeans, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room, like it’s signaling the point of no return. The zipper slides down slow, torturous. His fingers skim under the denim, and I lift my hips, desperate to help him, to get closer. The air kisses my thighs, cool against overheated skin, and my whole body throbs with need.
He watches me as he peels my jeans off inch by agonizing inch, not breaking eye contact, not blinking. It makes me feel bare—exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothing and everything to do with him knowing me too well. His hands trail up my thighs again, thumbs sweeping dangerously close to where I need him most.
Then his fingers slip under the edge of my panties and he groans, guttural and wrecked. “Brynn.Fuck.You’re soaked.”
“Knox…”
He presses a kiss to my hip. “Still just as sweet?” Another kiss, closer. “Because I swear to God, I’ve never wanted to taste anything more in my life.”
He drags my panties down slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. The fabric slides over my skin, damp and ruined, and the moment I’m bare, his mouth is on me.
That first kiss to my clit is slow, deep, open-mouthed. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’sgratefulfor it. His tongue flicks, then flattens, then circles, and I feel it in every nerve ending. My backarches off the bed, a sound breaking free from my throat—sharp and breathless, so raw I don’t even recognize it as my own.
He moans again, the sound vibrating against my clit. “Just like I fucking thought,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue over me in a long, firm stroke. “Still sweet. Still so fucking pretty. Your pussy has always been perfect.”
Instinctively, my legs fall open wider. His hands tighten around my thighs, holding me in place, and he sucks my clit into his mouth like he’s trying to pull every ounce of control from my body.
I fist the sheets, gasping. “Knox—oh God—don’t stop. Please.”
He lifts his head just enough to speak, lips slick, pupils blown. “I’m not going anywhere. I could eat this pussy every fucking night and never get tired of it.”
Then he’s back on me, tongue relentless, fingers slipping inside with ease. One, then two, curling just right until my hips jerk and I cry out. He strokes that perfect spot over and over, matching every flick of his tongue with the rhythm that has my body winding tighter and tighter.
“You’re dripping,” he says, filthy and proud. “Fucking soaking for me. You have no idea what this does to me.”
My voice is a whisper, wrecked and needy. “I want to come on your tongue.”
He pauses, just for a second, eyes snapping to mine. “Say it again.”
I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer. “I want to come on your tongue, Knox. I want you tomake me.”
His growl is pure sin. “You were never this needy before. How long has it been since a man properly made you come?”
I hesitate, then admit the truth. “Not since you. No one even came close.”
He smirks, smug and wild. “That’s fucking right. You’re meant to be mine.”
