Page 38 of Overdose

I sit up a little, chest heaving, heat licking up my spine like a fuse. “Spit on me.”

He pauses. Looks up, confused. Like maybe he didn’t hear me right.

“I want you to spit on me,” I say again, quieter now, but steady.

His eyes darken. He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t make a comment. Just shifts, slow and deliberate, and spits—hot and wet—right onto my clit.

And I melt.

God, I’ve been thinking about that since the alley. Since I watched him spit on the guy he yanked off me like it was nothing. Like he owned the fucking street, owned the air. Like his disgust was sacred. I’ve wanted that on me. Claimed like that. Marked like that.

Yeah. Real healthy, Blair.

Now it’s all over me—sticky, warm, obscene—and I fucking whimper.

Jesus Christ. Who wants this? Who thinks like this?

Oh, right. Me. Apparently me.

I should be ashamed. I should be telling him to back off. I should be thinking about literally anything other than how good it feels—how hot it is—to be treated like something filthy and his.

But all I can think ismore. Give me more. Ruin me, spit and all.

“Goddamn,” he growls. “You feel like fucking silk. Like you weremadeto be wrapped around me.”

My hips jerk.

My sarcasm finally bubbles back to the surface but it’s weak, breathless.Barely alive. “You always talk like a walking sex ad, or am I just lucky?”

“Shut up,” he grins against my skin. “You like it.”

Unfortunately, yes. Yes, I fucking do.

His tongue moves again—slow and filthy, dragging over me with that cold flick of metal.

The ball of his tongue ring hits my clit just right, over and over, sending shockwaves through my entire body. It’s not just the pressure, it’s thetexture, the contrast of soft and hard, heat and steel. Every swirl makes me twitch, makes my hips jerk up like I’m chasing it.

And while I’m unraveling under his mouth, his finger moves with hypnotic precision, pumping in and out of me so perfectly I swear I lose time. Every curl hits a spot that makes my eyes roll back in my head.

I don’t even notice the second finger until he presses it in—stretching me, filling me—and all I can do is moan and take it, thighs trembling, tongue ring still pulsing against me like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Because he does.

I gasp.

“Oh fuck?—”

He groans, like my reaction turns him on more than anything. “So tight,” he grits. “Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go. Like you wannakeepme.”

Jesus Christ, I think.He’s fingering me like it’s a goddamn love language.

And worse?

It’s working.

His tongue flicks harder, faster, circling my clit with maddening rhythm. His fingers thrust deeper, rougher. The burn and stretch of the second one makes me lightheaded. My thighs twitch. My hands tangle in his hair like I’m trying to fuse us together.

“Thought I’d show you what itcouldfeel like,” he says between strokes, voice low and rough. “Me. You. This high.Nothing else matters. Not the motel. Not the mess. Just your taste. My mouth. And the way you fall apart when I touch you.”