47

SEVENTEEN

His curse is the only warning I get before his mouth is on me. Licking and sucking and, holy shit, that feels good. I barely get a chance to enjoy it before I’m orgasming, my toes curling and my back bowing. I don’t mean to grab his hair and grind my pussy against his face, milking every last bit of pleasure from his clever tongue.

I don’t mean to, but I’m not sorry I do it.

Shane shifts me higher on the ottoman and shoves it forward enough that he can go to his knees between my spread thighs. I tense. Most of the time when guys have gone down on me in the past, they’re in a rush, doing the bare minimum to get me ready enough to fuck me. I’m more than ready to fuck Leo, but he’s giving my pussy slow, thorough kisses. Like he has all the time in the world. Like this isn’t even about my pleasure; it’s simply because he’s enjoying himself.

Little by little, I relax, my mind unspooling beneath his tongue and the pressure of his fingers against my thighs, holding me open for him.