Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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She tastes like top-shelf whiskey.
I damn near groan at the thought because, really, that means she tastes like me.
I suck on her tongue just to get another taste, just to revel in the primal satisfaction of marking her, even if it's only in this small, insignificant way. Her short nails comb through my hair, scraping delicately across my scalp before threading through the strands that have grown longer at my nape, tugging softly to pull me closer. Her tongue licks mine gently, submissively, and when my fingers tighten their grip on her exposed thighs, tempted to lift her up to spread them until she's straddling me, a nearly imperceptible shiver shakes her shoulders. I slide my hand over the thin scarlet material of her dress to the expanse of skin on display on her back, tracing the line of her spine, smiling when the rush of goosebumps follows my touch.
This dress — goddamn, this dress.
I have no idea how the material is clinging so securely to her. It's one slip of silken fabric wrapped loosely around her body, dipping down low, almost to her belly button, to show off the soft swell of her breasts, only to loop up around her neck and fall back down her back, exposing every inch of satin skin until the fabric reconnects just above the dimples in her lower back. She's not wearing a bra, and I can feel the stiff peaks of her nipples against my chest through the thin fabric.
I want to lean down, push the fabric aside, take one of those reddish-brown peaks into my mouth, and suck hard enough to make her moan my name. I want to lay her down on the expensive-ass glass coffee table in front of us, littered with empty shot glasses and lime slices, and fuck her until her eyes roll back into her head and her body shakes with the multiple shocks of orgasms flooding her body. I want to make her come so many times her cheeks are permanently stained with the same scarlet hue as her dress.
And when she gently tugs at my bottom lip, I know she wants me to, too.
It's been nearly two weeks with her and I still can't get enough.
It's too damn loud in here. I can feel the speakers' bass vibrating through the floor boards, up the purple velvet couch, and straight through my body. It's loud enough to drown out whatever Olivia and Thompson are laughing about on the sofa opposite ours and, thankfully, loud enough to silence the groans of approval as West and Cooper watch the scantily dressed women on the dance floor below. And yet, I can still hear Josie's soft, barely audible gasp of a moan as if her lips were pressed against my ear when it slips from her lips.
That moan. Fuck, that moan. I've become well acquainted with that moan over the past two weeks. Breathy, clipped, nearly lost in the base of her throat as she tries to bite it back. It's the same one that always inevitably escapes her before she desperately whispers "please, please, please," against my lips. The same moan that means she wants me to fuck her. Right now.
I have never, not once, denied her after hearing that moan — that beautiful, divinely crafted, heaven-sent noise. I mean, fuck, I've never denied her at all. I've been late to practice three times in the past two weeks to fuck her at least once more before finally finding the strength to pull myself away. I've skipped more classes than I'd ever admit to her just to stay a little longer, mesmerized by the way her perfect body writhes beneath mine, her molten honey eyes locked on mine as she comes with my name on her lips. I've given up some big bags from fights, skipped out on team dinner, bailed on every O'Malley's outing the team has tried to drag me to, and even ghosted the guys for Luke's NBA2k tournament, all to worship this girl's body.
