Page 128 of When It's Us
“Here,” I rasp. “Open.”
She does. Eyes glazed, mouth parted and when she wraps her lips around my fingers and sucks, slow and filthy, my tongue stutters against her. I moan right into her cunt.
“That’s us,” I breathe.
She whimpers, trembling above me, then turns her head to meet my gaze, eyelids heavy, pupils blown, and murmurs against my fingers.
“I want you in my mouth while you’re still dripping out of me.”
Fuck.
I almost come again. And I’ve already emptied everything I had into her.
I moan into her cunt, tongue desperate, my chin soaked, her words searing into my chest. She’s ruining me.Ruining me.And I’ll let her—every fucking time.
She slides off me, collapsing onto the sheets beside my wrecked body.
I’m panting, half-soft, twitching from aftershocks, brain completely offline.
She rolls toward me and pushes up on one elbow, then onto her knees. She drags her mouth down my stomach before curling one hand around my soft cock, still wet from her, and takes me into her mouth like it’s the most natural fucking thing in the world.
Slow. Careful. Devoted.
Cleaning me up like she needs me in her mouth one more time.
I groan, hand fisting the sheets. “Ginger…holy shit.”
She looks up at me, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on mine, and swallows me down again, gentle but filthy.
And I’m fucking gone.
Completely, absolutely, hopelessly hers.
I can’t take it.
Can’t let her kneel there like that, her mouth still on me, all softness and ruin and fucking devotion.
I reach for her, cupping her jaw, my thumb swiping the corner of her mouth, and tug her up toward me, slow but insistent.
She crawls up my body, warm and flushed, her breath shallow against my skin. I don’t wait. Don’t care that my mouth is still wet from her, that hers tastes like both of us.
I kiss her. Long. Deep. Unapologetically filthy.
I lick into her mouth like I’m starving, like I need to know she’s tasted me, and I can taste her, and we’re tangled up in all the same mess. I groan when she kisses me back just as deep, her fingers curling in my hair, tongue stroking mine like she knows I need this part too.
Not just the heat, but the connection; the claim. Like she’s saying I’m hers without needing a single goddamn word.
Hutch
Iwasonmyway home to shower and head straight to the ranch when Mom texted asking me to bring milk. So I quickly headed home to shower, let Oakley out and plugged in my laptop.
It's not long before I'm back on the road and stopping at a gas station a couple miles from the ranch.
I step inside to the soft twang of an old Dwight Yoakam song filling the tinny speakers and give a chin tip to the regular cashier, Johnny, before heading back to the cooler.
I grab a six-pack of beer and then a gallon of milk from the cooler and turn, nearly bumping into a couple behind me.
Recognition flickers in her eyes at the same time I realize who I’m looking at.
