Page 87 of With a Cherry On Top

“Yes, baby.” I lower my mouth to her center, the first swipe of my tongue making her cry out. “I need it too.”

She tastes sweet and tangy, fucking perfect. I groan into her, my brain in a frenzy as I lap at her folds, circling her clit and drinking in every gasp and broken plea she gives me.

She tastes better than every fantasy I’ve had rolled into one. Like this pussy is fuckingmine.

“Fuck, I love older men,” she says in a breathy laugh as she angles her hips toward me, holding on to the microwave handle behind her for balance.

Relentless, I drag my tongue over her, savoring the way she writhes against my mouth. Her fingers twist in my hair, tugging, trying to get me to go faster, then trying to pace herself, like she’s afraid of coming apart too soon.

But I don’t want her afraid. I want her lost. I want her fucking ruined.

I slide two fingers inside her, coaxing, stretching. Then deeper, curling upward, searching until she gasps sharply. Her whole body tenses as I stroke that spot again and again—right there—my tongue working her clit in tandem. Her moans turn frantic, breathy, her hand tugging at my hair harder.

I remember what she told me on TOP—that the only way a man has ever made her come is by going down on her. If I’m not mistaken, her exact words were “like a man starved.”

Which works out just fine, because it’s exactly what I am.

I flick my tongue and press until she’s right there, until she’s trembling on the edge, her breath catching in her throat.

Eyes widening, she tenses up, then she shatters.

Her body jerks and she tightens her thighs around my head as pleasure crashes over her in waves. I don’t stop. I keep stroking, licking, drawing out every last tremor.

“Breathe for me, baby,” I say when I realize she’s pressing her lips tight.

She opens her mouth, her cry echoing off the kitchen walls, wild and raw.

Fuck, watching her come might be worth everything that’s coming my way. Everything I undoubtedly deserve. So I don’t stop. I work her through it until she’s nothing but a shaking, writhing mess. Until she’s limp and panting, her chest heaving, her body shuddering with the aftershocks. Then, still not ready to let her go, I suck on her clit one more time.

With a loud cry, she flinches, and through the haze, I hear the sharp pop of plastic and metal giving way.

I look up, confused, and my eyes go wide as I spot the source.

You must befuckingkidding me.

“Hello?”Logan says as he picks up, the whirring of tractors unmistakable in the background.

I squeeze the microwave door in my hand, then look up at the rest of the built-in appliance, hinges dangling uselessly at either side. My throat is dry, my hands clammy, and my heart pounds so hard against my ribs it feels like it’s trying to escape. “I messed up,” I rasp.

There’s a moment of silence, followed by an unimpressed “For fuck’s sake. Who did you screwnow?”

My heart stops for what feels like an entire minute. The scent of her is still clinging to me, a mix of jasmine and something warmer. I can feel her—her thighs trembling against the sides of my face, the way her fingers gripped my hair, the breathy moans that still echo in my ears. The taste of her lingers on my tongue, absolutely sinful. I can hear the microwave door she ripped off the hinges hitting the floor with a loud clunk before she mumbled a “Thank you, Chef” and walked away without hesitation.

“N-no one,” I rush out. Technically not a lie. “I need help.”

“Where are you?”

“At work.”

Logan speaks to someone else, probably Kyle, then his voice comes back clearer. “Okay. Address?”

“No, wait. I need you to...” I stare at the detached microwave door clutched in my shaking hands, and my reflection stares back at me in the shiny metal, wild-eyed and pale. “Pick up some, uh, pieces.”

Another long silence. “Look, if you killed someone?—”

“A microwave,” I blurt. “I killed a microwave.”

“Okay. And you want me to . . .”