Page 103 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“What?”

I nip at her skin with my teeth, get another gasp out of her.

“We’re not supposed to unless there’s a reason,” I say, even as I push her into the wall with my hips. I’m hard as a rock and I know she knows.

“I don’t fucking care,” she whispers, and her thighs tighten around me, my fingers digging in where I’m still holding her.

“No?”

“No,” she hisses.

“You care about any of the rules?”

“I don’t even remember what they are,” she says, and I push her even harder against the wall, rocking against her. “God. Fuck.”

I kiss her harder until her lips are swollen and her glasses are crooked, my hands under her thighs. There’s an armchair to our right and I push her into it and then plant a knee between her legs, already bending down for her mouth.

She gives it to me, my hand on her jaw, hers sliding through my hair as we devour each other before she grabs my shirt again, hauls me toward her, hooks her foot around the back of my thigh and I grab the back of the chair to steady myself.

“You good?” she whispers, face suddenly inches below mine.

I swallow hard, nod.

“Good,” I rasp out, and I’m about to ask the same when her mouth is on my neck and all the words dissolve before they make it to my lips.

When she pulls me down to kiss her again I slide a hand up her thigh to the top, and she arches into me.

“Yeah?” I murmur.

“Yeah,” she whimpers back. Her eyes are closed, head back, lips parted. I rub my thumb over the top of her thigh, right where it meets her hip, and she makes a soft, pleading noise that bypasses my brain completely.

I kiss her again and she grabs my hair, panting. I bite her neck and then lick it, scrape my teeth over her collarbone, listen to her gasp. My knee slides from the chair and I’m kneeling on the floor in front of her as I guess where a nipple is and bite it through her dress. Judging by her hiss I’m at least close and then my hands are under her long skirt, lips on her stomach, her hand still in my hair.

I grab her panties without thinking but before I pull them off I look up at her, and I mean to ask yes? again but she looks at me with lust-drunk eyes, lips parted, her hand still in my hair, so I don’t ask. I just fling her panties somewhere else in the room and pull her toward me as she drapes one thigh over the side of the armchair, skirt rucked around her hips.

I find the spot on her thigh where I fell asleep on her last week and bite it, sucking her soft skin into my mouth but, I swear to God, Kat growls and writhes, her hand tensing in my hair.

“Say please,” I murmur.

“Goddamn it,” she whispers, her breathing rough. “Please.”

I push her thighs wider and give her a long, slow lick that makes her gasp and swear, fingers curling in my hair. She’s hot and wet, my mind flooded with her taste and the way her skin feels under my hands, the way she tenses and then jolts as I keep exploring with my tongue.

My mind’s blank, a whirlwind of lust and desire and sensation: her hand in my hair, tight enough for me to feel it; my dick hard as a rock and straining against my zipper. I don’t bother trying to tease her. All I bother with is finding her clit and figuring out how she wants me to lick it.

Good thing she’s not shy right now. I watch her as I explore, swiping, circling, teasing, and she arches her back and closes her eyes and grabs the back of the chair over her head as she whispers half-garbled instructions: left. The other left. A little more—oh fuck yes. That. Fuck.

Kat swears, jolts, grips my hair hard enough to bring tears to my eyes before whispering fuck, sorry and relaxing her fingers. Then she does it again, and again, and before I know it I’m groaning with every tug, almost as desperate for this as she is. My cock is out, in my hand, my strokes almost as haphazard as my tongue.

When she makes a desperate, high-pitched noise I look up at her because God, I want to see this. I need to see this because at least half of me thinks there’s no way it’ll happen again, so I’ve gotta save it for later.

Her eyes are closed. Her back’s arched. She’s pushing my face into her with a desperation that makes me moan even as it also makes my eyes water, but now she’s gasping and whimpering and swearing, and as I watch she jams a fist to her mouth and bites down.

Then she comes. There’s no fucking question: she rocks herself into my face, whimpers into the hand she’s biting. Her whole body shudders. One thigh muscle jerks. I moan again, right into her clit, because I want to say God yes please, give me this.

“Stop,” she suddenly hisses, and pulls at my hair again. A leg jerks. “Ahh. Stop stop stop stop—”

I do, of course, and look up at her, hand still on my dick.