Page 171 of Sexting the Pakhan

She does.

The anger is still there. The hurt too. But beneath it, hot and unmistakable, is the woman from every midnight message.

I keep my eyes on hers and use my mouth until her knees start to shake.

She whispers my name like she hates me. Like she needs me. Like both things are true.

She looks down at me and goes still for half a second, like she can’t quite believe what she’s letting happen. Then her fingers tighten in my hair.

I spread her thighs wider, and she gasps as I lick her harder.

I have had six years of her in my head. Six years of her words in my phone, of her telling me what she wanted without knowing it was me she was feeding. Six years of her voice at midnight, wet and embarrassed and trying not to beg.

I drag my tongue through her once, deep and slow, and her knees nearly buckle.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

I hold her hips harder and do it again.

Her pussy is slick and hot, already opening for me, already giving me that taste I have imagined too many times to count. I lick her the way I wanted to the first time I had her in my bed, the way I wanted to every time she texted me late and needy and stubborn and trying to pretend she wasn’t touching herself while she wrote back.

She makes a broken sound and tries to twist away.

I keep her where she is. “No,” I say against her.

The word vibrates through her clit, and she jerks. Her hand presses against the table behind her. The other stays in my hair, not pushing, just holding, as if she doesn’t know whether she wants to keep me there or survive me.

She chokes on my name.

I work her clit with my tongue, slow circles at first, then harder, flatter, until her whole body starts reacting faster than her pride can keep up. Her hips move into my mouth. Her thighs tremble. Every breath she takes sounds like she’s trying not to make a noise and failing.

“Ruslan,” she says again.

I slide one hand under her thigh and hitch it higher over my shoulder. The new angle opens her more, lets me get at her pussy properly, and when I tongue into her while my thumb circles her clit, she nearly folds over on herself.

“Oh my God.”

I smile against her.

That makes her wetter. I can feel it. Taste it. Her pussy is dripping now, slick enough that every movement sounds obscene in the quiet room. I keep my thumb on her clit, rubbing firm little circles while my tongue fucks into her, and her legs start shaking around me.

“You’re going to make me fall,” she says breathlessly.

“Then fall.”

She lets out a laugh that turns into a moan.

The sound goes straight to my cock.

I want to put her on the table and split her open on it. I want her on her back with her breasts crushed under my hands and my name in her mouth. I want every filthy thing she’s written me over six years, every late-night confession and every explicit little need she sent into the dark, and I want to give it back to her with interest.

But first I want her shaking on my tongue.

So I keep my mouth on her pussy and make it impossible for her to think.

Her clit is swollen under my tongue now, sensitive enough that every direct flick makes her jump. I ease off just enough to keep her from tipping over the edge too fast, then go back in harder, lapping at her until she grabs my shoulder with her free hand and tries to pull me closer.

“That’s it,” I murmur against her. “Use me.”