Page 99 of Saddle and Scent
He groans, long and low, when I swirl my tongue around the head, gathering syrup like honey from a hive. I savor the taste—sweet and masculine, syrup and skin—and drag my tongue along his length again, slower this time. My hands wrap around the base, thumb smearing through the sticky mess, spreading it like frosting.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re gonna kill me.”
I hum around the tip of his cock, letting my tongue flick over the slit, tasting everything he has to give. Then I take him deeper, letting the syrup coat my tongue, my lips, my chin. I’m a mess, and I love it.
He grips the edge of the table behind him, knuckles white, abs flexing every time I bob my head.
“You always this good with your mouth, Junebug?” he pants, voice shredded. “Or is it just ‘cause I brought syrup?”
I pop off with a soft laugh and a slow stroke of my hand along his shaft.
“It’s ‘cause I like hearing you lose control.”
“Oh, I’m close,” he says, voice cracking. “You keep doing that—I swear—I’m gonna—fuck?—”
But I’m not done.
I press a kiss to the base of his cock, then drag my tongue all the way back up before rising to my feet.
His eyes are wide. Dark. Feral.
But I’m not giving him mercy. Not yet.
I climb into his lap, straddling him on the kitchen chair, my sticky hands braced on his shoulders, his cock pressed hot and heavy against my belly. He reaches to line himself up, desperate and panting—but I bat his hand away.
“Nuh uh,” I whisper. “We’re not there yet.”
“Juniper—baby—please?—”
“I said,” I purr, rolling my hips so my folds glide along the length of him, “not. Yet.”
Hehowls. Hands flying to my hips, holding me still—but I move anyway, rocking my slick folds along his shaft, smearing syrup and arousal in messy, sinful patterns.
“Jesus,” he growls, head falling back. “You’re—fuck—teasingme.”
I lean in and lick a drop of syrup from his jaw. “Good boy,” I whisper. “Hold it.”
He twitches beneath me, cock pulsing against my folds, and I feel just how close he is. So I move again—slow, grinding strokes, the head of his cock nudging my clit just enough to make me bite my lip.
Then I reach between us and drizzle another line of syrup along his length.
“Oh, fuck me—” he gasps.
I do not.
Instead, I bend forward, breasts swaying as I lick it off himinch by inch—letting my tongue flick, tease, torment—until he’s shaking, thighs tight beneath me, cock red and leaking and angry with need.
I ride him without taking him inside, hips circling in tight, syrup-slick figure eights until his mouth drops open and his eyes squeeze shut.
“Baby,please—you’re gonna make me?—”
“That’s the point,” I murmur. “Let go for me.”
And then I squeeze him between my thighs, press one more kiss to his swollen head?—
And hebreaks.
He comes with a ragged groan, thick spurts of hot release painting my stomach, my tits, sticky and warm andso damn satisfying.
