Page 49 of Lovefool

“No, we should⁠—”

“Trouble, if you don’t let me eat you out like a man starved, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind. Don’t tease me. Please. I won’t survive. Need to feel those pretty legs shaking against my head until you squirt all over my face.”

Sutton doesn’t have to tell me twice. Any feeble attempt at playing it cool is immediately abandoned.

I consider parting my legs like the Red Sea when a debilitating cramp stabs me right through the abdomen, reminding me that Aunt Flow is currently visiting.

Doubling over for a breath, I unhook my legs from his back and grab his shoulders for extra support, waiting for the tide of discomfort to pass. I squeeze my eyes shut, gouging my fingernails into his skin (and not in the sexy way).

Sutton’s voice issues a deep baritone that trembles with concern, and he tucks back some of the hair that has fallen into my face. “Whoa, hey. What’s wrong?”

“Sorry. Cramps. You can’t go down there—all gross,” I tell him in broken English, and if the embarrassment soaking into my muscles wasn’t enough, nausea laps at my thoroughly eroded shores with an insistence that can’t be subdued by over-the-counter medication.

Sutton pauses for a heartbeat. I’d worry about what was swirling around in that head of his if I wasn’t bracing myself for another assault on my uterus.

“I can help you…if you want. But we can also table this for another time. I just want to make sure you feel okay.”

Help me? Surely he doesn’t mean…

My eyes fly open in shock. Why, on God’s green earth, would a man want to get a vampire special as my body goes through horrific changes?

He answers my unspoken question, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oral sex can help with cramps. I, uh, read about it somewhere.”

I breathe through another origami-twisting sensation. “Oh. Cool, cool.”

“Fuck, I can’t stand to see you like this, Lake. Will you just let me help you? For once in your stubborn life?”

I’m all for oral sex right now, but it’s Sutton’s pleasure that hinders me. Honestly, I’d be up for any nontraditional solution to the miniature knives going ham on my insides. No guy can genuinely like the taste of blood, right? Isn’t there other disgusting stuff in there too?

“I want you to, but…”

I don’t finish my sentence. The next thing I know, Sutton is helping me shimmy out of my pants, and my exposed skin puckers with goose bumps. My granny panties—complete with an absorbent pad that crinkles and gives me the worst wedgie in existence—are slid down my legs and discarded somewhere on the floor. Clearly Sutton doesn’t care about how sanitary any of this is.

The next sound that leaves my tongue isn’t one of contempt—it’s one of pure relief. The counter is hard and cold and not the first place I’d suggest doing anything sexual, but moving at all is an obstacle I’m not ready to overcome. Honestly, this is the point in my cycle where I’d be curled up in a fetal position on the bathroom floor, sucking at saltine crumbs while I pray for the Grim Reaper to come for me.

Sutton’s dominance—while still there somewhere in the wings—is softened for my enjoyment, and he flicks his tongue against my swollen clit to silently test the waters, slithering it around in unhurried circles until I feel sated enough to invite him deeper.

My hand feeds through his hair not a moment later, and my legs spread wider to embrace him and his ravenous appetite. He gently spears me with the foreign intrusion, parting my blood-slicked folds, venturing past my tight ring of muscle to curl his tongue against my inner walls. My back arches automatically, mewls resonating in the half-lit hush of the kitchen.

There’s a dexterity to his movements that could never be achieved by a battery-operated boyfriend, and I can feel him grin against my leaking entrance every time I pet that yawning ego of his. He savors my tremors, sucks all my gush into his mouth whether it’s clear or opaque, and doesn’t come up for air despite having his nose smushed against the hilt of my pubic bone.

Sutton’s practiced tongue dances around my G-spot, drawing my orgasm out and relishing in the hungry way my cunt pulses around his tongue. I watch his back muscles ripple with quiet power as he eats, frenzied, much like a dog that’s subsisted off scraps up until this very moment.

Dewdrops of sweat stamp down my baby hairs while my heart thuds against the brunt of my ribs like a trapped bird flapping its wings in outrage. The cramps have momentarily returned, but it’s not because of a biological pitfall.

Sensing that I’m either about to crush his skull between my legs or pass out from the lung-crushing stimulation, Sutton withdraws from my cunt to massage a bite mark into the meat of my thigh, suckling hard enough to leave behind teeth imprints and a bruise-colored rosette.

Fuck. Can I be cock-drunk if his cock isn’t even out?

Everything feels wet and sticky. I glance down momentarily to catch a flash of red, but it’s hard to really assess the bloodiness of the battlefield.

“You like your kisses down low, Trouble?” he asks with an unpolished gruffness to his tone—one that would promptly put a baby in me if my body wasn’t actively working against it.

“Oh, fuck. Yes, Sutton,” I moan as more arousal pours down the insides of my thighs, stoking the fire sitting heavy in my belly. I rotate through shades of pain and pleasure, building up my tolerance with each lick he withholds, and my previous disquietude has been upended by a steady trail of kisses leading to my puffy, aching clit. “Never needed anything so badly. I can’t—I can’t think straight. Nobody has ever made me this wet.”

“I love it when you look down at me.” I can hear the simper in his voice. “So fucking pretty sitting on my kitchen counter with your legs spread open like this, gushing uncontrollably.”

A laugh escapes me. “It’s unsanitary.”