Page 22 of My Ex for Christmas
My request is promptly denied as he continues to take his sweet time, teasing me with kisses. His tongue traces the edge of my bralette where it sits on the swell of my breast, and thenfinally, he reaches behind me to unclasp it.
I tear the material from my body and fling it across the room. This causes a smirk to settle on his lips.
“Still as eager as ever, I see,” he muses. His eyes darken as they settle on my bare chest.
“Still as mean as ever, I see,” I snap.
He raises a brow. “We tried that once, remember? If I recall, you didn’t like it much.” He leans down, lips finding my ear. “Have your tastes changed since you’ve been gone, Hads? Want me to call you a filthy fucking slut? Because I can. I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
He pulls back, studying my face.
My lips purse as I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
“No, you don’t. Because you’re not a dirty whore, are you? No, you’re the best fucking girl, and you like to be validated. Praised. You gonna let me do that, sweetheart? Let me take my time with you?”
My fingers curl into the sheets. “Yes.”
He continues his path downwards, his breath ghosting over my exposed abdomen. Goosebumps pebble my skin, but not from the cold—it’s surprisingly warm in Brooks’s apartment. He presses his lips to my stomach once, twice.
Then he stops at the piercing on my navel. “This is new,” he says, gaze flicking up to mine.
“It was a dare,” I say. One of the few nights I had gone out during university, I had come home with a fresh piercing.
He studies the jewellery for a moment, then nods. “I like it.”
The tip of his tongue traces the band of my lacy underwear. I squirm, needing for him to reach my aching core. It’s been a while since I’ve had any relief, solo or otherwise, and I’m not afraid to admit I’m desperate.
“What do you need, Hadley?” Brooks asks. His fingers skim the insides of my thighs. “My tongue or my fingers?”
My hand finds his head, and I tug on his hair. “Both.”
He grins. “That’s my girl.”
I grow wetter at the praise. More desperate for him. He knows it, too, based on the self-satisfied expression he wears.
Brooks sits back on his heels and tugs my underwear down my thighs, then tosses them to the floor. I fist the sheets on either side of my hips as I resist the urge to close my legs. My cheeks heat as he continues to drink his fill.
“You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he says, and my heart squeezes at the reverence in his tone.
“Brooks,” I whisper.
When he settles between my thighs again, I hold my breath. The first pass of his tongue has me releasing that breath in a gasp. Then he slips a finger inside me, and I bite my lip to stifle any noises I might make.
That plan goes out the window when he hooks the digit. I let out a slightly embarrassing whimper as I thread my fingers through his hair, urging him to continue. He obliges, working on my clit with his mouth while he pumps his finger inside me.
And just when I can feel that familiar pressure building in my core, he pulls away.
My eyes shoot open. “Hey,” I whine.
Brooks only grins. In response, I frown. But my confusion grows when he flips around, sitting back against the headboard. He beckons me toward him.
I sit up and turn, leaning back on my heels, staring at him. “You remembered?”
“Of course I did.” He grabs my hand. “Now come here.”
I crawl forward until I can settle myself on his lap, legs straddling his hips.
When we were younger, we experimenteda lot. It helped having divorced parents—one of their houses wasalmost always empty when we needed it. Of all the positions we tried, this one got me there the easiest.And he remembered.
