Page 83 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
We’re kissing again, harder this time, more desperate. I’m drowning in her scent that’s heavy with arousal. She’s growing wet, I know it, and the knowledge turns me feral. In one motion, I sweep everything on the table aside—plates clattering together, silverware scattering—and lift her onto the surface.
She gasps, laughing breathlessly, but then we’re kissing again, and there’s nothing funny about it anymore.
Her scent is everywhere now, fogging my thoughts, reducing me to base instincts. This is what it’s supposed to be like with scent matches—overwhelming, consuming, impossible to resist.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, my forehead pressed to hers. “I’m going to taste you now. Every inch. Make you come on my tongue until you forget how to speak.”
My hands are already at her jeans, fingers working the button open.
She bites her lip, but she’s smiling, giving me permission without words, and lifts her hips. I take my time sliding the denim down her legs, letting my hands drag along her thighs, learning the shape of her. Her panties are simple cotton, dark purple, and already damp at the center.
Fuck yes.
I hook my fingers in the waistband and pull them down too, slowly and deliberately, watching her face the whole time.
She kicks them off completely, leaving her in just that burgundy shirt and socks. The image is going to be burned into my brain forever.
Her thighs are soft, unmarked, and when I spread them wider, I see she’s completely bare, smooth and absolutely perfect.
“Lie back,” I instruct. “Time for me to really feast.”
She leans back on her elbows, legs dangling off the edge of the table, and giggles softly, nervous but excited.
I lift her legs and place them over my shoulders, then I just stare at her offering for a long moment. Her lips are pink and swollen, already slick with arousal.
So I grab the squeeze bottle of maple syrup from where it rolled, and her eyes go wide when she realizes what I’m planning.
“Chris…”
I squeeze, and the syrup drips between her legs in a slow stream. She laughs out loud and squirms. It slides over her outer lips, pools between them.
“It’s cold!”
I use my fingers to pry her open and squeeze more syrup directly onto her, coating her inner lips, letting it drip over her. Then I lean in and lick.
One long stroke from bottom to top, and I moan at the taste. “Fuck,” I growl against her. “Perfect fucking combination.” Then I go wild on her.
Licking and sucking, devouring her like she’s the best meal I’ve ever had, because she is. The maple syrup mixed with her natural taste is addictive, sweet and earthy and uniquely her, and I can’t get enough.
She’s squirming and gasping, her hips jerking every time my tongue hits her clit, and the sounds she’s making are better than any music.
I slide my hands under her ass, lifting her slightly off the table for better access, and work her with everything I have. My tongue circles her clit, flicks over it, then I’m sucking it into my mouth while my fingers dig into the soft flesh of her ass.
Her gasps turn to moans, then into cries, and her thighs start trembling against my shoulders.
“Chris,” she gasps, one hand fisting in my hair. “Chris, I’m?—”
She doesn’t finish because she’s coming, screaming so loud I’m glad we don’t have close neighbors. She releases her hold of me and is completely on her back, shuddering.
Her whole body arches off the table, thighs clamping around my head, and I don’t let up. I keep licking, keep sucking her clit, drawing out her orgasm until she’s thrashing and begging incoherently.
Wave after wave crashes through her, and I wish I were inside her right now, fucking her.
When she finally goes limp, collapsed on the table and panting, I release her clit and glance up, licking my lips slowly.
She’s completely undone, hair messy and spread across the table, shirt rucked up, showing her stomach, chest heaving, eyes glazed and unfocused.
“Fuck, I love seeing you like this,” I murmur. “Could look at you wrecked and satisfied all damn day and never get bored.”
