Page 5 of Their Broken Legend

Staring at the white ceiling,I try desperately to enjoy Grayson Young’s tongue… I laugh—GraysonYoung’stongue.

“Am I tickling you?” he suddenly asks before lifting his head to see what’s amused the girl who doesn’t crack a smile for anyone, but five minutes alone with Grayson Young’s tongue and the world is a massive joke.

I spread my thighs wider, glaring at him between my knees with impatient expectancy, liking the black balaclava over his face, which makes it easy for me to separate myself from the person within. Not that I dislike him. I just enjoy the balaclava. “Nothing. Don’t stop. You’re doing really good.”

No, he’s not.

I’m bored shitless.

He smirks, lopsided and irritating because I can see it even with the balaclava on, which means he’s not neck-deep in my pussy. “Good. I’ve been practising.”

Not sure what that means.

Don’t really care, either.

He’s just a tongue to me.

I drop my head back to the pillow. Grayson goes back to frenching my pussy like he’s at the orthodontist and his mouth is drunk from a misplaced sedative needle, and I gaze at the white recessed ceiling again, my mind wandering. I remember a conversation my bestie, Chloe, had with me about the categories of pussy-eating men.

There’sThe Timer, this guy eats pussy on the clock, with the perpetual breaks in rhythm for “Are you close?” or “Is this working?” Chloe has had a lot ofTimers.

Then there’sThe Talker, but where his mouth has game before the act, spouting pussy poetry, it flounders around on the pussy prose at lick time. Reminded of high school, I groan. I’ve been the unlucky receiver of manyTalkers.

“Yeah, you like that, hey?” Grayson says against my skin, presuming my groan was thanks to his skilled urethra lapping.

I hum forhisenjoyment. “So good.”

And then there’s Grayson.

He’sThe Dreamer…

As in, I feel kinda comfortable and warm, but my mind is drifting to other things as his tongue drifts in every direction except the one that leads to my clit.

Wanting relief, I help him out, grinding on his lips, when suddenly, the bedroom door flies open, and the sound of the party floods in through the opening.

I shoot up.

Grayson flies off the bed, ripping the black cover from his head to confront our intruder. “Hey! This room is taken!”

Reaching for the sage-coloured sheets to hide beneath, I scowl at—

Xander Butcher?

Standing in the doorframe with the face of an angel but with the scars and bruises of a monster who crawled his way up from Hell is Xander Butcher. All the girls in the District know about the youngest Butcher Boy, whose cute, wholesome vibe gets him out of trouble and into knickers. With his floppy dark hair the colour of onyx and blue eyes like topaz, he’s the boy-next-door, cliché-cute Casanova type, who somehow manages to beat every challenger in the District’s weekly boxing matches.

Xander-goddamn-Butcher who can charm a girl—a girl like me—and make her come until her bones dissolve, pass out without expecting the favour returned, then leave her the following day with no goodbye or contact number, and,ugh, no anger towards him either because the oral was so…sublime?

A gift.

His category is rare and elusive, fittingly named ‘The Gift.’ ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I thanked him after he was done with me.

I almost melt into a puddle at the mere reverie of it. If only Grayson’s limp, sedated tongue was still fondling my urethra it’d be enough to force an orgasm to the memory and phantom sensation of the way Xander’s found every spot, even in his drunken stupor.

Yep, Kaya.

That Xander Butcher.

I pull the sheets higher at my chest as Grayson pulls his clothes on, huffing and grumbling, “What the fuck, man? Get out of my room!”

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