Page 21 of Then Came You

I did that.

Fuck yeah, I did.

I smooth her matted hair behind her ear, and I lick her neck, savouring the saltiness of her skin. She wiggles on my lap, and I groan in pain.

Despite loving how she just used my cock as her very own fuck toy, I need to get her off me. “Your little lap dance is going to make me embarrass myself.” I slap both her ass cheeks for her to start moving.

She isn’t wearing a g-string, or anything lacy or remarkable, just regular cotton, and for some reason, the ante on her sexiness just upped itself. The simplicity of them adds to her appeal.

She yelps in response to the single slap, but whimpers when I caress the globes of her ass. It’s been a hell of a long time since I’ve touched anyone in their twenties. Who am I kidding? I was in my twenties the last time I felt up someone who was Row’s age. So, the bounce and the firmness of the flesh catch me off guard.

“I made a mess,” she bashfully declares, looking down at my lap. Her voice is throaty, and even though she says it with such innocence, she doesn’t realise she’s sinning herself.

“You came all over my cock, baby.” I throw her a rueful smile. Her hands paw at my chest out of nervousness.

“I’m sorry?” she offers.

“I’m not,” I state.

“You’re not?”

I shake my head slowly, seeing the confusion in her face.

“Tink, next time you come, I want it to be on my face. If I’m not satisfied with you, I’m not doing my job properly. I want you to use my mouth so you’re the only thing I taste when I swallow.” I shock the fuck out of her with my brashness, but more than that, I ignite that very glimmer of lust I saw in her eyes from the first time we met.

I’m a walking cliche. I know I should feel a lot of things right now. Guilt. Shame. Mortification. Dirty. Wrong. She’s practically my son’s age. But all I feel is unhinged around her. I feel criminal and lethally dangerous when I think about anyone else ravishing this exquisite woman or, in the same breath, whoever has damaged or bruised her.

“I’ve never had anyone do that to me before,” she lets out meekly. She’s never had someone feast on her cunt? That’s blasphemous. Is it suddenly April 1? Because I feel fooled.

“Are you a virgin?” I spew out without thinking.

“No, just no one ever wanted to do…that.”

“Selfish pricks. It would be my pleasure to stay between your legs until I can’t breathe.” I shake my head in dismay at how a guy wouldn’t want to bury themselves in Row’s sweetness until she’s screaming.

“Don’t you mean it would be my pleasure?” she sasses back, momentarily shocking me with her little bravado. I’m beginning to realise I adore all sides of Row and enjoy not knowing which side of her I’ll get.

“Oh, it would be your pleasure alright.” I wink for extra good measure.

“How do you do that?” she asks cryptically.

“Do what?”

“You make me feel so comfortable.” I feel the exact same. “You make me feel so sexy when I’m with you, and I’m so silly and funny, open and… free,” she muses, inhaling a shaky breath as if this is a turning point in her life. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit shy, and awkward…and alternative, and I have more issues than a box of tissues, but you see right through it all.” She sits back on my lap, massaging her bruised bones.

I can’t fathom how she can see herself so poorly.

“I don’t think you're awkward in the slightest.” She casts her eyes down and stiffens. I get the feeling compliments are rare for her. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you who is so…pure.” The gleam in her eyes is worth putting my innermost thoughts out there. “There’s this light about you, Row, that even I can see exists despite the absence of it. I was on autopilot for months. Years. Before I met you. I wish you’d see just how special you are.” I skim her thighs, hoping she finds comfort in my touch.

“Thank you.” Her voice croaks, emotion lodging thick in her throat.

I can see my words are big and scary for her. We’ve crossed a lot of lines tonight, maybe more than her vulnerable self can take. It’s not that she’s not strong, but she does have a fragility about her that she shields.

“Let’s get some food, and I’ll take you home.” When she scrambles off my lap, I immediately miss the weight of her.

“You don’t have to take me home. I’m sure it’s nowhere near yours,” she dismisses, reaching for a towel to dry my hair. I take it from her and do it myself.

I get the sense she’s embarrassed over where she lives, given how she’s avoiding eye contact with me. Her posture is concave, and she fidgets trying to find something else to do now that I’ve taken the towel from her hands.

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