Page 4 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

Shimmying my pants and thong off, I can feel his heated stare on me the entire time, relishing in my amateur strip show.

I then crawl on the bed toward him, letting him get comfortable before hovering my wet entrance over his mouth.

He doesn’t let me sit down right away. First, he takes two fingers and runs them through my accumulated arousal, watching them scintillate in the fading light.

If I wasn’t gripping the life out of the headboard, I would’ve crushed him with my hoo-ha.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. Look at the way your poor pussy’s gushing for me,” he moans, wiping my slick across his lips before fully submerging a finger in his mouth. “And you taste even better.”

I hate the way that I leak even more.

Then, abruptly, my balance is challenged when he yanks me onto his face, tonguing my swollen opening with a promise to bring me to that precipice. I squirm—my cunt clenching around a phantom feeling—though I’m thankfully kept in place by his vice-like grip on my thighs.

He tests the waters with another lap—gradually whittling down my reinforced defenses until I’m a puddle—and then he spears his tongue inside me. Far-reaching, he sweeps against my inner walls, employing a circling motion that tickles that big, red destruct button on my mental dashboard.

“Oh, fuck,” I breathe out, grinding over his pursed lips, my pulse thundering against the thin skin of my neck.

I can practically feel Crew grinning against my apex as he uses his meticulous tongue to swirl over my bundle of nerves, lighting up my synapses like a grid gaining power after an outage.

The viscous sound of his spit and my arousal echoes around the room, and he never once comes up for air as he swallows my liquid desire greedily.

There’s a dizziness setting up camp in my skull, my legs trembling restlessly each time he carves me out.

My need to come collides head-on with his need to pleasure me, the latter overwhelmingly more powerful given the titillating licks he serves to my molten core.

My fingernails clamp down on the wood of the headboard so hard that I’m afraid I’ll leave behind claw marks as if I’m some wild, sex-starved animal.

“It feels so good. Oh, God. I don’t know if I can take anymore.”

He extricates himself just enough to speak. “You can, Merit. And you will. Let me take my time. Let me revel in you.”

How does he know exactly what to say?

My lower lip falls victim to a bite, and I stifle the most pathetic whimper. I don’t think I’m going to last much longer. Violet the Vibrator has nothing on Crew.

Something unnamable swells behind my navel, pulsing with anticipation and ushering another deluge of gush to splatter his taste buds.

I’m moaning at an eardrum-rupturing volume, rutting my hips into the air without an ounce of mortification.

His tongue delves deeper and deeper, reaching parts of me that have only ever been touched once in a blue moon, oscillating between sensitive spots with well-rehearsed flicks.

My eyes fall closed, my breathing stutters, static crackles over my blacked-out vision.

Crew withdraws again, just enough to take one of my southern lips between his teeth and pull. My lower body convulses, and I silently pray for death to strike me down because anything would be less painful than this torture.

“Are you going to give me an orgasm? Are you going to squirt all over my face like the good girl I know you are? You’ve been doing so well. Hell, I’m going to come in my pants in the next three minutes whether you finish or not.”

If Sensible Merit was in the house, she’d shun being called a good girl , but Sensible Merit is MIA right now.

My belly ties into a constrictor knot. “I…”

His breath plumes against my clit. “It feels like you’re burning alive, doesn’t it?”

“I-I’ve never…”

“You’ve never what , sweetheart?” he teases huskily.

Is my lack of experience embarrassing? Maybe, but I don’t feel any sort of judgment from Crew. In fact, even with that fuckboy guise he puts on, I don’t believe that he’s as shallow as a kiddie pool.

Spit it out, girl! The only man who’s ever yummed your yuck sucked on your clit like a pacifier and thought that the G-spot was a myth .

I use the headboard to suspend my weight, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’ve never had…a man-made orgasm.”

I’m not sure if I expected Crew to pity me, but the harsh sting of his nails in my thighs is all the answer I need. Determined in a charming sort of way. Sexy in an I-want-to-slurp-you-up-like-soft-serve sort of way.

“Good thing we’re about to change that then,” he promises.

The barb perched on my tongue dies a swift death when Crew torques his tongue just right, eating me out like a man starved.

There’s no reprieve. He’s determined to wring my orgasm out of me with measured strokes, and he won’t be satisfied until I am, in fact, screaming his name loud enough to alert his neighbors.

And I do.

“Oh, God. Crew! Oh! I can’t—it feels…”

The floodgates inside of me open, and the warmth that’s been broiling in my groin begins to overspill, rushing out of me in gush after gush of cum. I’ve never climaxed this hard before. Ever. It hurts so good.

Crew braces himself, printing half crescents into the flesh of my thighs with his nails and gulping the geyser of wetness that erupts out of me with a velocity unknown to mankind.

A keening mewl tears through my throat, and my orgasm seems never-ending while I lose the steel-tight hold keeping my inhibitions in check.

Finally, after I empty every drop, I melt against the headboard, grappling for my bearings as my equilibrium suffers a death-defying spin.

Crew isn’t even exhausted. Just like his libido, his stamina is impressively off the charts, and he licks webs of my arousal off his lips, self-satisfied and rumbling his approval.

I stare up at the shadow-obscured ceiling, pushing strands of sweaty hair out of my burning eyes. “Wow. I didn’t know it could feel like that. ”

“I live to please,” Crew says.

Everything’s coming back to me in sporadic flashes.

For the first time in minutes, I don’t feel like I’m about to pass out.

My tits rise and fall at an erratic pace, the leftover slick on the insides of my thighs congeals against my skin, and my brain is trapped in a low-visibility fog with no sense of direction.

Crew attempts to—indiscreetly—adjust his erection, which looks like it’s about to burst through the seams. “Fucking hell, Merit. You taste like goddamn heaven, you know that?”

“I didn’t crush you?”

“Sweetheart, if I was destined to die by pussy, I’d choose yours in a heartbeat.”

Thank God it’s dark in here, otherwise my face would be as red as a fire hydrant. I’m about to change the subject—or at least diffuse some of the lingering tension—but the soft groan that Crew emits is enough to warrant concern.

His godlike body is bathed in brilliant radiance, the moon inadvertently highlighting the small wet spot saturating the front of his jeans.

My eyes widen. “You didn’t…”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing a cold shower can’t fix. Plus, I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.”

Maybe Crew isn’t who I thought he was. Any normal fuckboy would be turning me onto my knees by now and slamming the clam with egregious obliviousness. But he’s not pressuring me to do anything.

“Let me clean you up,” he offers, rolling partway off the bed before I stop him with my outstretched hand. When he looks back at me, it feels like time stops.

A man who practices aftercare, let alone knows about it? Am I dreaming?

“Don’t you want me to help with”—I gesture to the standing ovation in his pants—“that?”

His chuckle is deep and hearty, tinged with a healthy dose of gravel that would have my panties flying off if they weren’t already somewhere on his bedroom floor.

“This isn’t a tit-for-tat situation. You don’t owe me anything.

I ate you out because I wanted to, not because I expected something in return. ”

Whenever I was—and I use the term loosely here—“intimate” with my ex, it was always transactional.

He’d offer to lick the lily, I’d let him, and then he’d guilt-trip me into servicing his needs.

I kind of just assumed sex was like that, you know?

I didn’t hate giving him head, but it wasn’t my favorite.

Dicks are just so…unattractive. Floppy, wrinkly, veiny—the equivalent of a raw chicken leg with gangrene.

Crew strains a bit against my hold, but I tighten my grip. “What if I want to help you?”

The shock on his face is comical. “You want to jerk me off?”

“I want to have sex,” I clarify.