Page 85 of Lovefool

She clucks her tongue. “Hmm, you do have a point. I am pretty showstopping.”

“You are,” I affirm, rising back to a stance, letting every reservation roll off my shoulders like rain off river rocks.

I have no reason to be nervous. Lake has proved to me time after time again that my body is deserving of the same love as everyone else’s, and the fact that she wants a picture of me, when I’m at my most vulnerable, means that she truly values me in a way no one else ever did.

“And I want you to have some pictures for yourself.”

Lake perks up. “Of you?”

“Yeah, baby. Of me. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but it’s impossible not to give you what you want.”

She snorts, and it’s adorable, and I still feel like we’re a week into our relationship despite having known each other for months. I’m experiencing the world with her for the first time. On paper, we’re so different from each other that we shouldn’t work, but we do. She gets me to do the hard stuff that I’d never have the balls to carry out without a support system. Not every relationship has the necessary scaffolding for such deep-rooted trust.

“Are you sure?” she asks quietly, making direct eye contact with my dick, which, I’ve now realized, has been out for this entire heart-to-heart.

“I’m sure.”

I situate myself so my legs are flush with the edge of the mattress, my soft belly pooching out slightly over my semi-hard cock. The crown glints with excess arousal in the slash of fluorescent lighting overhead, and Lake grips my hips like they’re the only anchors keeping her from melting into a puddle on the bed.

She licks over my length, inspiring a shiver to accordion-fold through my body. She breathes on the skin with little awareness that anything she does, at this stage, has the ability to make me take off like a rocket.

“God, you’re so big. Like, you have to be in the one percentile. Your flaccid penis size is a dude’s dream hard size.”

“Thank you. I think?”

“Has nobody ever complimented your dick before?”

“Uh, I can’t say that they have.” Minus my friends, but that’s, um, a conversation for another time. We’re not a part of a circle jerk or anything. We just see a lot in the locker room.

“Then”—she presses her lips to my throbbing erection—“let”—kiss—“me”—kiss—“compliment”—kiss—“you”—kiss—“on”—kiss—“behalf of women everywhere.”

Fuck me.

27

THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

SUTTON

Igrab the camera—the one that’s surrounded by a mess of newly developed Polaroids—and take a picture before I lose my gall, restless fingers plucking the film as soon as it slips free.

I wedge it between my teeth and take another, documenting a series of whatever licks and laves Lake’s tongue delivers to my cock. Graceless, sloppy. Her appetite has grown fangs in the short interval we’ve spent talking, and I’m right there with her.

Grabbing her face in my hands, I claim her mouth with mine, bringing her up to my level so that I can comfortably deepen the kiss without having to break my neck.

Still pigeon-footed from the unforeseen onslaught of adrenaline, my voice branches off into a cross between a moan and a whimper, need roiling in my gut as I blindly sweep everything off the bed to make room for our bodies. The Polaroids descend in a fluttering mess, and there’s a slightly concerning clang as the camera falls to the ground.

Lake shucks my hoodie off at a speed I don’t think I’ve even moved on the ice, then she’s ripping my undershirt off until there’s nothing between us. She’s like some sexy, horny werewolf that has finally found relief after being in a rut. I’m ashamed I even know what that term means. Merit left one of her monster erotica romances on Crew’s table when I went over last time.

I thought it was an encyclopedia.

Kicking my pants the rest of the way off, I start to crawl on the bed, buck naked, caging her in until her back hits the headboard. Then, with a lot more patience, I unclasp her bra, flinging it onto the floor.

I don’t know what possesses me to slide her panties off with my teeth—call it clinical lycanthropy or some shit—but I move the fabric slowly down her long, flawless legs, immediately getting a whiff of her natural musk and drooling around the lacy hindrance in my mouth.

She’s arching her back against the duvet, tits pushed out to the ceiling, the flat plane of her stomach concaving and emphasizing the cradle of her hipbones. Everything about her is feminine—the lithe form of her figure, that delicate neck pulsing with blood, the blonde hair that fans out beneath her, the purse of her glossy, naturally plump lips. I’m thoroughly wrecked just from looking at her.

I dislodge her underwear from my mouth and lose track of it when it hits the carpet.