Page 38 of The Last Kind of Kiss
SHOULD’VE READ THE WARNING LABEL
LILA
Idon’t know what’s wrong with me. My yoni started leaking like a hole in the roof during a Category 5 hurricane. I know it’s TMI, but I’m, like, experiencing levels of wetness I didn’t even know the human body was capable of.
Conflict doesn’t turn me on. This is thelastsituation where sex would ever cross my mind, but then Bristol had to go ahead and say something sweet, and things were crossed alright. Oh, the idea of a sweaty lovemaking sesh is permanently residing in my brain with an overnight bag.
If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve thought I just peed myself. But it’s not only the unabating pressure in my lower belly—my whole body’s undergoing hormone hell right now, ranging from sensitive nipples to the wanton desire to mottle Bristol’s neck in hickey heaven. I want him filling me up with his cock; I want him to abuse my cunt until I can’t walk for days; I want him to fuck me so hard that I forget about all the other ways he fucked me over.
Either I’m about to die and my body’s trying to go out with one lastbang—heh, get it?—or the government’s poisoned the water supply and tricked me into tolerating Bristol Brenner. Ihave no idea what’s going on, and I don’t know how to stop it. Embarrassment and arousal brawl inside me—one breaching the surface only to be squashed by the other—and I wham my legs shut, not fully on board with giving my archnemesis a free show.
Bristol’s silent for once in his life, so red in the face that he’s roasting like a goddamn luau pig. He’s staring at my soaked pussy, possibly considering the very unsound decision of remedying the miniature waterfall between my legs.
The embarrassment finally overhauls every other feeling, and I shove Bristol weakly in the shoulder. “Leave!”
He doesn’t budge. “And go where? We’re on a fucking lake right now!”
“Anywhere but here!”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
While my whole body may be undergoing imminent shutdown protocols, my pussy’s more than awake right now. Melvin’s hot-pink, slightly curved body could never compete with Bristol’s extensive mountain range of muscles. And as humiliated as I am by this situation, I can’t help but wonder if the world’s playing some sick joke on me right now. I’m a woman with needs. Bristol’s a disturbingly attractive man who’s met those needs plenty of times before. The obvious solution to this unfortunate situation would be his head between my thighs while I scream his name out of something other than anger for once.
I emit a long-winded sigh, fruitlessly gathering some of the bunched sheets and covering my privates with them. “I don’t need you in here while I’m”—I lower my voice to a shameful whisper—“DJing the VJ.”
I can practically see the gears in his head turning. “While you’re…what?”
God, I’d laugh if I wasn’t contemplating diving off the balcony and drowning myself. “Do you really need me toexplain it to you?” I whisper, still clueless as to why I’m ovulation-levels of horny.
The longer Bristol inadvertently teases me with his big, strong muscles, the harder it is to ignore the tension snowballing in my cunt. The naïve half-frown on his delectable, delectable lips are almost more enticing than the cocksure grin I’ve grown to hate. I bury my face in my hands, unable to look him in the eyes because, one, I’ll either pounce on him and straddle the life out of his thick thighs, or two, I’ll evaporate on the spot from ever-growing mortification.
“While I take care of this,” I muffle against my palms.
I don’t even know why I told him what was going on with me. It was like I didn’t have control over my own thoughts, let alone my words. I should’ve just excused myself to the bathroom and employed the help of a trusty dusty showerhead.
Since I can’t see Bristol’s face, I’m surprised when a thick, chest-deep growl escapes his mouth, abrasively possessive in all the right ways. “You’re not taking care of this by yourself.”
I open an eye.
Did he just say what I think he said? No, he couldn’t possibly be insinuating…? Psh, I’m sure he’s not. Maybe he’s just worried for the state of my vagina or something. Can you die from masturbating too much?
When I get the courage to fully lift my head, I’m struck dumb by the not-so-subtle sight of his erection filling out his swim trunks, and I’m about to make fun of him for it when I realize that we’re figuratively—and literally—in the same boat.
His gaze trails my droolworthy line of sight, and an instant blush scalds his cheeks. “No, that’s—I’m not—it’s not because of you. Shit, I mean it is, but it isn’t.”
What? Frankly, I’m offended. That standing ovation in his pantsbetterbe because of me. I’m a catch and a half! And thoselittle glances he steals here and there aren’t as inconspicuous as he thinks!
“Excuse me?”
Bristol groans and tips his head back, adjusting the bulge now threatening to poke a hole through the flimsy material of his swimsuit. With the column of his throat bared to me, I can detect the beads of sweat pearling on his skin, the erratic rising of his chest. Hell, he looks worse than me right now, and that’s saying something.
“Remember when you said you felt weird?” He slurs a bit, those fluffy, finger-fuckable strands of his hair swaying with every incline of his head. He’s lookingwaytoo good right now. And no, it’s not just my sex-hungry brain saying that.
I nod, closemouthed, because I don’t trust myself to say something that doesn’t result in immediate trauma for both parties involved.
“I think I’m feeling it too.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
