“Ahh, there you go, Princess.”
Oh boy, oh, boy, oh boy.
I should tell him that I didn’t really know how to do this. That the only other person who had touched me like this ended up being extremely disappointed by the whole experience—even more disappointed than me, which was confusing—but Mike had eased off the spot that had made me squirm and was now gently circling the flesh around it.
My panties were soaked, but it wasn’t making the experience gross. It was making it better. The cotton slid over my flesh in just the right way, sometimes catching and making my hips jerk forward. Mike kept playing with me, seeming to enjoy the mess he was making.
“I told you, Lyssa, stop moving or I’ll lose my fucking mind.”
“I can’t!” I moaned. “It’s too much. I can’t keep still. I can’t, I can’t. I don’t know how to do this—it won’t work!”
Suddenly my cheeks were wet, and my vision was blurry. Every time Mike’s fingers hit a certain spot, I had to dance away from his touch, but then in the absence, I missed it, and my hips canted back, seeking it again.
Paul was right, I realized, I was a fucking tease, because I both really wanted this and didn’t want it at all. The conflicting feelings made me want to scream.
Mike leaned back, and his free hand cupped my cheek. He pulled my chin up and made me look at him.
“Do you like what we’re doing, Lyssa?”
“Yes! Very much! I just don’t know how to do it. I can’t keep still and take it, the feeling is too much.”
Mike thought for three seconds, which felt like three years. When he removed his hand from under my skirt, I couldn’t help the sob that fell out of my lips. I didn’t want him to turn me down like this—not fucking again. But then he pulled the lever under my chair, sliding me back, and climbed right over me and sank to his knees in the passenger footwell of his own truck.
“Tell me to stop if you want me to,” he rasped. “But you don’t, do you, Princess?”
I shook my head frantically. I felt hot all over and desperately achy, and my hairline was sweaty and gross. I needed to feel better, and I knew that Mike had a stronger idea of how this process worked than I did. And I trusted him—I trusted him enough to try. Failing at this once again would be embarrassing, but more than that, it would be disappointing, because if I was a heterosexual woman who couldn’t come with Mike fucking Holliday’s fingers playing my pussy like a fidget spinner, then I was simply not a person who could come. And not to be acephobic about it—because not having sex was totally fine and valid—but I wanted to, I so badly wanted to. I wanted to come on Mike’s fingers and around his cock, I wanted to come screaming, I wanted, I wanted?—
My hips were doing that annoying wiggling thing again, the thing I could barely control. It was such a mixed signal, because one minute I was thrusting closer like I couldn’t get enough, the next jerking away because it was all too much.
“I think you’ll like it if I taste you,” Mike said, breathing heavily. “Can I?”
I hesitated. Previously when a man had gone down on me, it was a nice feeling but just the same feeling: a tongue going back and forth over my clit, up and down, again and again. I found it more soothing than arousing.
But Mike was looking at me with his specific kind of intense hunger in his eyes, and I wanted this because he wanted this. So I nodded.
Mike reached under my skirt to tug my panties down my legs and over my knees. Then he grabbed my hips and tugged me down the seat, tilting my hips toward him.
“This fucking skirt,” he said as he pushed it up my legs and over my hips to my waist. “You looked amazing when you were twirling around the field for me, cheering my name. But you look even better with it like this.”
I didn’t have time to dig for compliments about my stitching skills, because he pushed my thighs open with those big craggy hands of his, and then, there was no other word for it: he feasted.
At that moment I learned I had only ever thought cunnilingus was soothing because I’d never had Mike Holliday do it.
I was gasping, clutching at him, his shoulders, his head.
When he closed his mouth over my clit and sucked, I nearly shot out of my skin. I would have if it hadn’t been for the seat belt and his hands. Then he ran his nose from my clit down my slit, which pulled a kind of gurgle from my lips before he trailed his tongue up over my opening, back to my clit. He was careful not to touch it directly, which would have been too overwhelming for me, instead he worked at the surrounds, playing, teasing, licking, sucking, and nibbling.
My hips danced restlessly, chasing and running.
Wordlessly—because his mouth was fucking busy—Mike reached up and fisted the diagonal webbing of the seat belt, wrapping it around his hand. Then he pulled it taut, as taut as it could go. I couldn’t push, I couldn’t retreat. I couldn’t move. His other hand held me open and pinned in place. I could barely squirm as he devoured my pussy. When he started making long licks up my slit that culminated in his tongue wiggling over my clit, I began moaning gibberish.
After one long, particularly thick lick up my slit, Mike leaned back and looked up at me. “You can take it, Princess,” he said, breathing heavily. “There’s more where that came from.”
A man of his word, he dove back in.
It was incredible.
I clutched his hair and threw my head back, panting as my hips writhed, trying to ride his tongue. Mike kept me in place, literally strapped to his passenger seat and pinned open. It felt so good. The trembling in my thighs was becoming unbearable, and my pussy was clenching desperately. Every muscle in my body tightened as my pussy and whole lower body turned white hot.
