Page 34 of The Last Kind of Kiss
He grins, exuding pussy-wetting arrogance that makes my bikini bottom suddenly feel two sizes too small.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask irately,thisclose to slapping agoddamn chastity belt on myself because none of my other Bristol-proof efforts seem to be working.
“Your nose crinkles when you lie,” he answers with far too much happiness.
Gasp! That…that…asshole!
“It does not,” I defend while happening to feel my nose, indeed, crinkle.
Bristol doesn’t entertain any more pointless arguments. His lips collide with mine in an instant—silencing my indignant noises of protest—and I feel every muscle liquefy like I’ve been submerged in a warm, relaxing bubble bath. I know it’s cheesy, but I swear I see stars cropping up behind my eyelids, red-hot flares of light bursting across a chasm of darkness. Time stops. The racing thoughts stop. My heart stops. He’s the closest thing I have to heaven right now.
And instead of ripping myself away, I pull myself closer than ever.
12
THE CHOCOLATE MADE ME DO IT
BRISTOL
Thank you, Stephanie.
The second I rush Lila’s lips, it’s like I can taste the life-altering elixir of her mouth—the one I’m in desperate, greedy need of. The hunger’s no longer surface level; it’s something so inherently deep that I’m sure it’s been folded into my DNA from the very beginning. It hacks away at bone, uncovering the beating heart of a libido craving to consume something wholly, pinched between sharpened canines and blood-stained enamel. Unshakable, unfettered, unconditional.
I’m expecting resistance at first—maybe because my surprise siege caught her off guard, or because she’s really committing to this fake relationship bit—but her mouth exerts unrelenting pressure over mine, drawing me further in with a swipe of her tongue.
If I’m not careful, I’ll be rocking a woody before this photoshoot is over. Since she’s still holding the fragrance in her hand, I take it upon myself to run my fingers through her hair, pulling her head closer to me. She exhales the faintest of gasps, and I’m privileged enough to hear a genuine, keening moan rise from the depths of her throat. My cock kicks against the crotch of myswim trunks, prodding the bikini line that’s one critical slip away from showing me that perfect, pretty, pink pussy of hers. Her cleavage is smushed against my chest, accentuating the hills of her breasts barely contained by her nonexistent bikini top, and the buds of her nipples harden with a frisson of excitement. I lose myself in her, as simple as that. The heady jasmine scent that clings to her skin shackles me, corrupting common sense, filling my head with a noxious gas that no amount of fanning can air out.
I can’t hear the rest of the world anymore—everything’s distorted, as if I’m trapped in a fishbowl. I’m also rendered powerless by the heat of the sun and the blinding snippets of camera flash. Lila rakes my bottom lip between her teeth, pulls ever so slightly, and stalks the pop of movement with catlike eyes.
Fuck. I want her to draw blood, to claim me as hers. I can feel her squirm around on top of me, exacerbating the hardness pitching avery noticeabletent in navy nylon. She undulates her pelvis over mine, the hood of her clit catching on my boner, and something guttural localizes in the tight cavity of my chest. Since my mind’s obviously on a leave of absence, my hand inches instinctively down toward her backside, and I thank the Lord that Stephanie cuts through our sloppy, sex-drunk, spit-swapping sesh before we submit the rest of the crew to some very traumatizing images.
“Perfect! I got the pictures!” she announces.
Like a sleeper agent hearing their activation phrase, Lila instantly comes to and backpedals away from me. “Great!” she says breathlessly, setting the perfume on the boat’s deck.
The crew disperses for the night, heading to their designated rooms, and Lila’s about to metaphorically jump ship too when my fingers clamp down on her arms, keeping her in place.
“Let go of me, you disgusting heathen,” she snarls.
There’s the Lila I remember. Not some docile house cat purring in my lap—a mean, lean, man-eating machine.
I ignore her little nickname for me. “You know, that kiss didn’t feel very fake.”
“Yeah, because my acting skills were making up for you tongue-fucking me!”
“Hey, tongue-fucking is a two-person job!”
Since there are still some stragglers packing up equipment, we’re not entirely alone, and anyone could see the obvious situation burgeoning in my company-loaned trunks.
“I’m oily, sweaty, and irritable. I don’t have time to engage in ‘playful banter’ with you today. In fact, let’s skip the friendly foreplay in the future and just lock lips when there’s a lens pointed at us, alright?” Lila scooches the tiniest bit off me, but I don’t let her get very far.
“You can’t leave yet!” I whisper-hiss.
“Just because you were weaned from your mother’s teat too early doesn’t mean you can get cozy with mine.”
Ironically, her efforts to get off me are only making my hard-on worse, and it feels like an amateur acupuncturist has gone stab-happy on my dick, thin, fine-point needles pricking every sensitive inch of me.
I don’t have the patience nor the energy to argue with her right now. “Stop moving. You’re making it worse,” I groan, feeling the head of my cock spit pre-cum against the inside of my swimwear.
