Page 100 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I love my friends.
Over the next week, A.J. and I settle in to a routine. I go to work; he drives by on his motorcycle at least four times during the day to check on me. I come home after work; he cooks dinner. (He graduates from pancakes to omelets to French toast. The man has a serious addiction to eating breakfast foods for supper.) I clean up; he plays the piano or does some amazing drum solo on the pra
ctice kit he keeps in what used to be the lobby bar, whaling on it until his fingers bleed like that kid in Whiplash. Or he reads to me. Or we watch a movie. Or, or, or one of a thousand different things.
Showers and baths are taken together.
Everything, in fact, we do together, right down to folding laundry.
I had no idea living with another person could be so much fun.
“I never thought I’d meet a woman who has worse-looking hands than I do,” he teases one afternoon after I yelp in pain when the juice of a lime I’ve cut to use in guacamole seeps into a deep cut on my finger. We’re in the main kitchen downstairs, making lunch. The surface of the stainless steel table I’m standing at is covered in various dents and gouges, but is otherwise a perfectly competent prep area. I like having so much space to spread out; the kitchen in my apartment is miniscule compared to this. And A.J.’s kitchenette in his room is even smaller than that.
I flick a piece of avocado from my fingers at A.J. It lands on his cheek. “Gee, sweet talker, keep ’em coming. Those compliments of yours really get me hot and bothered.”
He smiles at my sour look, swipes the avocado from his face, licks his fingers, and pushes away from the opposite counter he’s been leaning on as he watches me work. He moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Yeah? How bothered?” He slides his hand up my ribcage under my shirt and fondles my breast, tweaking my nipple between his fingers. It instantly hardens.
I’ve given up wearing a bra at home, because A.J. takes it off as soon as I walk in the door anyway.
Pretending to ignore him, along with the flush of heat that spreads from my lower belly down between my legs as he continues to pinch and stroke my nipple with his rough fingers, I shrug.
His other hand slides down my hip, then between my legs. I’m wearing jeans; he rubs me through the fabric, his fingers warm and hard. Automatically, I spread my thighs a little for him, but keep right on making the guacamole, mashing the ripe avocado in a bowl with a fork as if I’m not being wonderfully molested by a big, brawny male with whom I just happen to be madly in love.
He takes my indifference as a challenge. “Not so bothered, hmm? How about hot?”
Unbuttoning my jeans, he pulls down the zipper, and slides his hand past it, into my panties. When his fingers brush over my clit, I almost moan, but catch myself in time.
I shrug again and go right on with the guacamole, which I now have zero interest in.
“Oh, yes, definitely hot,” he whispers, his mouth at my ear as his fingers probe deeper. “Hot and wet.”
My hands fall still. I close my eyes, breathing shallower as A.J. puts his lips against the pulse in my throat and sucks me there, one hand pulling and rolling my nipple, the other buried between my legs, stroking and slipping in my wetness. When he pinches my clit between two fingers, I finally give in and moan, long and low.
His voice turns to a growl. “I’m going to fuck you on this table, angel.”
He shoves the bowl of guacamole aside, yanks my jeans and panties down and off, turns me around and grabs my hips, then lifts me onto the cold metal table. Moving fast, he pushes me onto my back, takes both my legs and sets them on his shoulders, then bends and puts his hot, expert mouth where his fingers have just been.
I moan louder, arching against the table. My fingers dig into his hair.
“Fucking delicious, baby.” I look between my spread thighs to find him staring up at me with glittering eyes. He swipes his tongue slowly through my wet folds, and I shudder. “Mmm. But we can’t let this guacamole go to waste.”
Before I realize what his intentions are, he scoops a big glob of fresh guacamole from the bowl beside me and smears it between my legs. I gasp. It’s cold and wet and—
And oh dear God his clever, clever tongue. His full, luscious lips. He’s eating it out of me. He’s licking me clean.
I fall back against the stainless steel. Out of my mind with pleasure, I cup my breasts in my hands, pinching my nipples as he’d done moments before, every ounce of my focus on that amazing, carnal feast going on between my legs.
I feel something new, slippery and a little stinging. I open my eyes to find A.J. grinning wickedly at me while he squeezes the juice from half a lime into my exposed cleft. Without taking his gaze from mine, he lowers his mouth again and begins to suck.
The pressure builds. I feel it, coiling tighter and tighter deep inside me, sparking my nerves. Our eyes stay locked together as he eats me, his tongue flicking faster and faster, his teeth scraping over my clit.
“A.J.” It’s a warning; I’m right there. I’m just about to come.
He unzips his own jeans, frees himself, takes his jutting cock in his fist and starts to stroke it, still sucking my pussy, his gaze still on mine.
“Please. Please. A.J., God, please give it to me, I need you now now now—”
He rears up and plunges deep inside me, burying himself to the hilt. I groan, flexing my hips to meet his thrusts, holding on to his forearms to keep from sliding as he grips my hips in his hands and fucks me mercilessly, his face hard, his eyes ablaze with lust and love.
