Under her gaze, I prop myself up, ducking my head to press a kiss to the puckered skin. I can barely feel my initial beneath my lips, but if I close my eyes and focus, the raised skin is unmistakable. I turn my head, mouthing over her supple tit, and sightlessly find her nipple. She makes a soft noise as I wet it with my tongue, her hips rocking down into me, fingers tangling in my hair and pulling me close.
“Demanding,” I mutter, finally taking her nipple into my mouth, but we both know I like it. I can feel the rush of wetness sliding over my twitching cock, seeking, waiting.
That first moment of pressure and hot-slick-tight as she sinks onto me makes me fall back, and I give in to the instinct to relish it. To watch her lips part. To see her eyelids grow heavy. To feel that sweet pussy finally taking me in, making me a part of her. To anchor her as she braces her hands on my chest, arms pushing her tits together as she rocks down, and I’m filled with one singular thought.
Thank fucking god I’m sober for this.
She exhales this little, “oh,” when our bodies meet, my cock buried deep. For such a small sound, it’s saying so much—that she’s surprised at how good it feels, that she’s overwhelmed with it, that she wants to take more.
I slide my palms up her thighs, my gaze raking over her body as my hips flex into her. “That feel good, baby?”
She nods, mouth still agape at the stretch. It’s been a few days since she and Killian…and even longer before that. She’s so tight that it makes my teeth clench with the urge to lift her, to feel that friction sliding up and down.
But I wait.
I wait for her to inhale and roll her hips, my body going rigid as she tests the connection, seats herself the way she likes. I wait and I let my hands roam, sliding up her ribs to cup her tits in my hands, but I can’t keep them still. I grab her waist and reach around to squeeze her ass, her thighs, palm rubbing into the flat of her stomach like maybe I could feel the bulge from my cock, but even though my hands are restless and indecisive, my eyes watch her face. She looks fierce and soft, rocking into me as her fingertips curl against my chest.
My balls clench. “Goddamn, you’re sexy.”
Her hips stutter, but don’t stop. The flush on her cheeks bleeds down, tinting her chest a vivid pink. “As sexy as Augustine?” she asks, voice small.
I’m so filled with the sensations of her, the scent of her hair, the heat of her eyes, that it takes me a long moment to process the words. When I do, I go still. “What?”
“Augustine,” she repeats, and it’s possible she tries to hide the shy, sad thing in her eyes, but she’s not exactly successful. “Do you think—I mean, can I be as sexy as her?”
I lie there for a minute stumped, and not because I don’t know the answer. I just have no fucking clue where this is coming from. “What does Augustine have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” She says it too quick, too flippant. “I just wondered.”
Yeah, bullshit.
“Did Tristian tell you something?” It’s not exactly a secret that Auggy’s had her eye on me, but no one else around here would bring it up to Story.
She drags her lip through her teeth, her hips doing this little, unconscious roll that momentarily blanks my thoughts. “Nothing that isn’t already obvious.”
I stare at her, too stunned to form words, because this can’t be jealousy.
Can it?
I know it’s true when she averts her eyes, using that moment to lift and fall, whiting out all my sense with the drag of her pussy over my cock. Shooting out my hands, I grab her hips and still her, fighting back a shudder at the restraint it takes.
“Look at me,” I demand, but when all I get is a quick flick of her eyes, I lever myself up, sliding a hand behind her neck. I pull her face to mine, forcing her to watch me say, “Auggy’s sexy. She could probably get a man off with the tip of her pinky, and you wanna know why? Because she’s a whore.” At the furrow in her brow, I stress, “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just the way it is. I respect her hustle. But, baby…none of that’s real.” I brush her hair back from her cheek, letting my fingers linger against the soft skin below her jaw. “She couldn’t hold a fucking candle to you.”
Story watches me, eyes pinging back and forth between mine. “I’ve done…things, for money,” she whispers. Her mouth pulls into a self-deprecating slant. “And I wasn’t even good at them.”
I snort. “You were good at them because you weren’t good at them.” I don’t need to see her brow knit to know how confusing that statement is. “You’re real,” I explain, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Sometimes you’re so real, it fucking hurts to look at you.”