Page 46 of Dreadful

“What was it, hm? Watching me come? Or watching someone else make me come?”

“Your smart fucking mou⁠—”

She wraps her lips around me and the sentence dies somewhere it won’t be recovered. The wet heat of her mouth is a fucking revelation, slick and perfect and so goddamn good I almost lose it right there. Her tongue flattens against the underside, tracing the vein there like she knows exactly how to ruin me. I fist my hand in her damp hair—still smelling of chlorine and my brothers—and anchor myself against the years of watching. Her throat works around me, and I bite back the groan that wants to confess how long I’ve imagined this exact moment.

“Touch yourself,” I rasp, the words coming out shredded. “Let me see you.”

Her free hand slides under the edge of her bikini bottoms, shifting the fabric aside. I watch her fingers circle her clit, slow and deliberate, and my hips jerk upward involuntarily. “Fuck yourself, baby girl,” I pant, my voice rough with want. She slides one finger inside herself, and a low sound tears out of me.

“I bet my brother slid more than one in, mm? Two? Three?”

She pulls off just enough to meet my gaze, pleasure and challenge burning in her eyes as she gives a sharp nod. “Three.”

I’m about to tell her to use three when she does this thing with her mouth—a hard suck right under the head, tongue flicking that sensitive ridge—and I come so fast I see white. A ragged sound tears out of me as I hold her there, hips stuttering. Pleasure detonates at the base of my spine, white-hot and blinding. “Swallow,” I beg, voice wrecked. “Swallow it all.” She does, and the vibration nearly undoes me all over again.

I don’t let her catch her breath.

My hands find her waist before she’s fully steadied, and I drag her up the bed and pull her over me in one motion. She pitches forward, palms hitting the mattress on either side of my head. Her wet hair brushes my face. I reach up and find the bow at her hip—then the other—and pull until the fabric comes loose in my hand.

I toss it somewhere. Don’t care where.

“My turn,” I pant. I curl both arms under her thighs and bring her down onto my mouth.

The sound she makes punches straight through me, and I want to fucking bottle it up and keep it forever.

She’s slick and swollen and so fucking sensitive from before that the first drag of my tongue has her thighs clamping around my head. I take my time anyway.

I’ve been patient for years. She can be patient for another few minutes.

I pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look up at her. Her chest is heaving. Her lip is caught between her teeth.

“Your cunt,” I tell her, voice rough and holding her gaze, “is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Fuck, Cruz,” she exhales slowly.

I use both thumbs to open her up further and fucking feast.

Long strokes, then short ones. Tongue flat, then pointed. I seal my mouth over her clit and suck until her hips jerk forward, then I ease off just long enough to feel her frustration before I do it again.

She’s chasing every movement, making little noises of protest every time I ease off. It satisfies the part of me that spent years watching her belong to someone else.

I shuffle her forward an inch, changing the angle, and feel the difference immediately—the way she gasps, the way her hips rock into me. I slide three fingers inside her and curl them until her thighs start trembling against my ears.

“Ride my face,” I tell her, the words rough against her skin. “Take what you’ve earned.”

She tips her head back and rolls her hips, grinding her perfect cunt against my face.

I keep my fingers working that spot, steady and unrelenting, and bring my mouth back to her clit. My free hand travels up over the curve of her ass, and I press one fingertip—barely, just the suggestion of pressure—against her rim.

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop moving. Her thighs clamp around my head, a tremor building into a shudder that locks me in place. Then she comes with a raw, guttural cry, and a hot rush floods my chin, my neck, the sheets beneath us. I don’t pull back. I drink her down like I’ve been starving for years. Maybe I have.

She goes still above me, breathing ragged. Then she scrambles off, face flushed. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’ve never—that’s never happened before.”

I catch her wrist before she can retreat further. “Don’t.” My voice is rough, raw. “I’m not afraid of getting messy, baby girl.” I kiss her thoroughly to prove my point.

I reach over, grab a corner of Bishop’s comforter, and drag it over her stomach, then my face. It smells like her now. Like us. A little present for my brother.

I stand, pulling her up with me. My fingers lace through hers, tight. I grab the towel from the floor and tie it around her hips, my knuckles brushing her still-trembling skin. “C’mon.”