Page 63 of Sexting the Pakhan

“You’re staring,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

Her mouth closes.

That answer does something to her. I see it. The way her body stops bracing for insult. The way her breath catches for a different reason.

I hook my fingers into her panties and pull them down. She lifts her hips for me. I drag the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, off one ankle, and drop it on the floor. Then I put my hands on her thighs and open her fully.

For a second I don’t move.

Her pussy is slick and swollen, glistening in the low light, wet because of me. Her clit is already hard, her thighs shaking around my hands. I can smell her now, warm and sweet and filthy, and my cock throbs so hard it hurts.

“Fuck,” I say.

She covers her face with one hand. “Don’t say it like that.”

I bend and kiss the inside of her thigh. “Like what?”

“Like I’m—” She stops.

I bite her softly. “Like you’re what?”

Her hand drops from her face. Her eyes are bright and embarrassed. “Like you like what you see,” she says.

I look directly at her while I lower my mouth closer to her pussy. “I do.”

Then I lick her.

Her whole body jumps.

I drag my tongue through her wet pussy, slow enough to taste her properly, and her hips jerk against my mouth. She makes a broken sound and grabs at the sheets. I do it again, flatter, deeper, licking from her opening up to her clit until she’s trembling under my hands.

“Ruslan,” she gasps.

“Yes.” I put my mouth over her clit and suck.

She cries out.

I pin one of her hips down before she can squirm away. Not hard. Enough to keep her where I want her. She tastes better than I imagined, and I have imagined it more than I should have. The shy librarian. The woman in my shirt. Soft thighs spread around my head while she tries and fails to be quiet.

She is not quiet now.

Every stroke of my tongue pulls another sound out of her. Every time I circle her clit, her fingers twist in the sheets. When I slide one finger into her pussy, she goes tight around me and chokes on my name.

I curl my finger, and her back arches.

“There,” I say against her. “That’s the spot.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m the furthest thing from God, sweetheart.”

She lets out a shocked little laugh that turns into a moan when I add a second finger.