Oh God . . .
His lips slide into an adorably crooked half-smile. “Speechless, love? Was it something I said?”
His hands slide up my skirt, grasping my panties and skimming them off my hips and down my legs. His movements are sure and confident.
Then he looks at the beige silk material in his hand, almost curiously. “How do you do that? Make something so plain look so hot I could come in just two pumps?”
Then he presses my panties to his face and inhales—his eyes sliding blissfully closed.
Oh my God . . .
He doesn’t remove my skirt, but pushes it up to my waist—exposing me to the cool air and his simmering gaze. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, not swift and erratic, but in a deep, hard, steady rhythm.
Henry kisses my calf, then behind my knee. “I need your words, sweet Sarah. Do you want me to lick you?”
“Yes,” I whisper so softly I can barely hear myself.
“Say it. Say, ‘Put your mouth on me, Henry. Taste me, kiss me, fuck me with your tongue.’”
I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me with words and excitement and need.
“Yes, all of it.” I swallow and try to give him what he wants. “Taste me, Henry. Fuck me w—”
I don’t finish—because with a deep groan, he’s on me. Mouth sucking and licking, hungry—starving. And it’s amazing. Dizzyingly divine. My skin feels electrified and warm, wet, pulsing pleasure pumps through my veins. I let my head drop back to the bed because I can’t hold it up, and my legs spread wider, hips writhing. Wanting him, wanting this, wanting to let him do anything and everything just so long as he never stops touching me.
“It’s so good . . . so good . . . Henry.”
My words are incoherent like my thoughts and I don’t really know what I’m saying.
He cups my bottom and holds me up to his mouth. I feel his teeth against my soft lips, his tongue lapping up and down, tracing firm circles around my clitoris again and again.
But then he shifts his mouth, nibbling the tender skin of my upper thigh. “Give me your hands,” Henry says, his breath hot against me.
I lift my arms and offer my hands. He puts them right where he wants them—between my legs, fingers holding me open to him, my thumbs at my cleft, exposing my most sensitive flesh.
“Stay just like that,” Henry rasps. “Fuck, look at you.” He licks me with the very tip of his tongue. “Such a pretty, pink, tight pussy.”
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod . . .
“You like those words, don’t you?” His finger drags across my slick opening, slowly circling and circling. “They make you wet.”
“It’s so . . . dirty,” I pant, but I don’t feel at all embarrassed.
“That’s why it’s fun.” He presses a kiss to my clit and I moan so loud. “Because you’re so fucking sweet.”
Then Henry lifts his eyes to mine. “Now, Sarah . . . watch.”
Slowly, he licks me from bottom to top. On the second pass, he stops at my opening and presses inside. He thrusts in and out, deep and hard, fucking me just like he said . . . with his tongue. I whimper and he moans. And it builds inside me, cresting—the intensity—the pleasure. I try to keep watching, because that’s what Henry wants, but it’s just all too much.
My legs tremble on his back, thighs squeezing. I writhe and I beg.
“Please, please, please, oh please . . .”
So . . . close.
His tongue is replaced with fingers, long and thick. And when his lips close over my clit, sucking gently, my muscles clamp down on those fingers and my mind goes white as shattering pleasure wracks through my body. Wave after wave makes my back bow and my mouth scream.
After a time, when the grip of my orgasm wanes to languid contentment, Henry kisses his way up to my lips. His kiss is hard and dominating, with teeth and tongue.
And yes, I taste myself on his lips—just like in the books.
But there’s no shame or disgust. It’s arousing, erotic, and perfect—because everything with Henry is perfect. And I feel so incredibly tender toward him. I wrap my arms around his neck and back, anywhere I can reach.
“That was . . . amazing,” I say.
Henry’s lips nuzzle my neck and a chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“That . . . was only the beginning.” He leans away just long enough to pull my shirt over my head and push my skirt off to the floor. Then he rolls onto his back, hooking me under the arms and effortlessly lifting until I’m straddling his chest.
I should be embarrassed—I mean, my crotch is practically in his face. And it seems Henry wants to go from practically to literally.
He crooks his finger, looking carefree and young and heartbreakingly happy. “Hold onto the headboard and bring that sweet pussy up here.”
And I laugh, because who says that?
“Are you sure?”
“My tongue isn’t even close to tired. And I need more of you, Sarah.”
He’s so damn comfortable, so sure and confident in his own skin. And he makes me feel that way too. Beautiful and bold. Brave. Like I could do anything—say anything—be anything.
But at the moment, all I want to be is his. So I wiggle forward and follow my prince’s command.
IN SECONDARY SCHOOL, my friends and I made up a drinking game called “The Way I’d Go.” The idea was to think of the grandest, best way to die—like drowning in a vat of ale or blowing up the chem lab for the betterment of all student-kind. I’ve just discovered the ultimate, most sublime way to die: with Sarah Titebottum sitting on my face.