Page 69 of The True Garza
He points to the empty space by his thigh on the coffee table. “Leg.”
You’re his pet. That’s what you are. His plaything. Is this what you want? Tell him to fuck off. Knee him in the nose.
I lift one leg to the table.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re glistening.” He brushes his knuckles along my slick folds, and I bite my lip to quell the shiver that rolls through me.
“Just as clean and pretty as I remember,” he muses, before he circles my clit with the pad of his thumb.
Oh god.
As he proceeds to play with my pussy—leisurely, teasingly, torturously—I bite down hard on my lower lip, squelching the sounds that threaten to burst out of me.
Lost in his own little world, he caresses my clit. Glides his fingers through the valleys of my folds, having fun—but driving me mad. My knees are on the verge of giving out. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to remain standing.
“If you keep hiding your sounds from me, you won’t feel my mouth on you.”
Fine. I don’t want your mouth on me, anywa—
He plunges a finger inside me. And,holy wow,I’m close. So close. I need his mouth on me. Now. I want to come on his face. I want to see my juices on those lips.
“Give me your sounds, London.”
No.No.“Lick me.Please.”
“How badly do you want my mouth?”
“Not want. Need. I’m…I’m so close.” I’m a simpering weakling. “Let me…let me come on your fa—”
His mouth is on me. The heat of it closing around my swollen clit momentarily dizzying me. He eats me, neat and confident. Cleanly. No mess. No waste. Every lash of his tongue precise and purposeful. Every lick and suck on target.
“Yes…yes, oh god, yes.” On the edge, my hips make sharp jerks back and forth, meeting every lap of his tongue. “Ohhhh…Oh my god…Oh gah—”
When he flattens his tongue against my clit, I’m done for.
I’m up on my toes, my thigh muscles squeezing as my orgasm blasts out of me, my knees threatening to buckle.
He continues to lick me with long, slow swipes as ripples roll through me while I hang on to him for dear life, afraid I’ll fall.
Once the tremors have abated and my breathing is close to normal, he picks up the glass of whiskey and stands, then places it at my mouth for me to take a sip. When I do, he seizes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses me. Hard. Tongue deep. Like he means it.
Starved for him, for the taste of myself on him, I return the kiss with equal fervor, gripping fistfuls of his shirt to steady myself.
When he ends it with a nip of my bottom lip, I whine in protest.
“Ready to go?”
Go? Is he serious? “Can I stay?”
He fingers a stray tendril on my forehead. “Why?”
This man. “Why do you think?”
“Who knows? You’re unpredictable. You hate me, then you like me, then you hate me….” He shrugs. “Maybe you wanna set my house on fire.”
“Then stop making me hate you.”
“Hm. Don’t know what your deal is. Everybodylovesme.”
