Page 101 of Cookout Carnage
‘Yes, Hot Sauce.’
She swallowed. ‘I think you should probably take off your shirt.’
He looked at her intently.
‘Because it’s wet,’ she continued. ‘And I don’t want you to catch something.’
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Heaven forbid I come down with myofascibronchiplasmitis.’
He took his glasses off and laid them carefully on the countertop. Holding her gaze, he undid the top button of his shirt. He paused. ‘If you insist?’
She nodded. ‘It’s for health reasons.’
He flicked open another. ‘Well then, I’d better take it off.’
She watched him undress, her eyes fluttering between his darkened face, the muscles of his chest as he slowly revealed it, and the tenting in his pants that showed he was as aroused as she was. He shrugged off the shirt, tossed it on the side and looked down.
‘Oh dear. It appears my trousers are also a bit damp.’ He undid the button then looked up at her. ‘Do you think I should remove them? For health reasons?’
She nodded, shivering with anticipation.
‘Are you cold, Hot Sauce?’ he asked as he tugged down the zip.
She shook her head as he shucked his pants, leaving him standing in his boxers. His body was a work of art. He leaned back against the counter, his hands gripping the edge, and raked his eyes over her. She opened her mouth to draw in air faster.
‘I’m not a doctor,’ he began. ‘But it’s eighty degrees in here and you’re shivering and beginning to hyperventilate. I’m concerned you might have come down with acute gerisetiamultivestibusitis.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Deadly. Unless immediate action is taken, of course.’
‘What action?’
‘I need to remove your clothes and lick you till you come.’
Sherilyn forgot how to breathe. ‘Well, if you think it would help?’
He nodded. ‘It’s the only cure.’ He frowned. ‘Although…’
‘What?’
‘You have to consent to this course of treatment.’
‘Yes, I consent. Yes, please.’ He stared at her hungrily. ‘Is that enough?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid consent must be ongoing and extremely verbal. If I don’t hear the words “yes, Tris” and “more” on a regular basis during the procedure then I will stop the operation.’
She licked her lips. ‘What about “oh god”, “holy shit” and “fuck, yes”?’
Tristan was gripping the countertop so hard his knuckles had turned white. ‘Those will be taken as indicators of consent.’ He paused. ‘However,…’
‘Yes?’
‘If I hear “Lucas Hagen” there’s going to be trouble.’
She nodded and he closed the distance between them, stopping just before they touched. His blue eyes were dark, his gaze hooded. His lips hovered a millimetre from hers, his hot breath a promise of what was to come.
‘Shall we begin?’ he asked.
