Page 262 of Faking the Goal

KENTARO

Taylor spasms against my tongue, bucking her hips so hard her knees nearly crush my ears, and for a moment I think she's going to kick me off the edge of the bed. But I hang on. I suck, lick, trace lazy circles with my tongue, the way she likes it, slow and deliberate, and she grabs fistfuls of the sheets — then, when that isn't enough, she grabs my hair, pulls me closer, grinding her soaked pussy on my face.

Her thighs clamp around my head like a velvet vice, and she's screaming, really screaming this time, the way she only does when she's too far gone to care about anything.

Taylor's not faking it. She never does.

She shudders, she convulses, her body arches, and I drink down everything she gives me, greedy, not stopping until she pushes me away with a sob, wriggling toward the headboard, spent and trembling.

I drag myself upright, crawling up her body, and she's watching me through tangled hair and hooded eyes, her cheeks flushed, chest heaving, mouth parted in awe and disbelief. I lick the sticky gloss off my lips and grin at her, savoring the taste of her, the taste of victory, my face anointed by her pleasure.

She traces a finger down my chin, collecting a droplet, and pops it into her mouth with a wicked little smile. "Fucking hell, Ken-chan," she pants, voice hoarse, "where did you learn to do that?" Her words come out in shivers, every syllable a tiny aftershock.

She looks at me like I'm a miracle, or a weapon, or maybe the best goddamn invention in the world. I stretch out next to her and let the silence deepen, the only sound our ragged breathing and the slow thump-thump of her heart under my hand.

Taylor rolls onto her side, propping herself on an elbow. She drags her gaze down my face, lingering on my wet mouth, and shakes her head in wonder. "You have—" she says, then laughs, a breathless and unsteady sound. "You have an amazing fucking mouth, Sunshine." She trails her fingers along my jaw, her touch feather-light, reverent. "No one's ever... Christ, I didn't know it could even feel like that. You're unreal." She tugs me closer, nosing at my cheek, licking the corner of my lips, desperate for any trace of herself left on my skin.

"You're gonna make me blush," I say, and she giggles, actually giggles, burying her face in my neck like she can't handle how good this is.

Ten nights. Ten fucking nights of this—her screaming my name like I'm the only thing keeping her from drowning, her pussy so wet and ready for me every damn time. I'm addicted. To her moans, to the way she clenches around my fingers, to the way she begs for more.

It's heaven.

It's hell.

Because yeah, making her come like that? Best fucking feeling in the world. But walking around with a permanent case of blue balls? Not so much. My cock's been hard enough to cut glass every damn night, and all I can think about is how good it'd feel to finally bury myself inside her, to feel her tight heat clenching around me as I fuck her deep.

But I can't. Not yet.

I don't wanna rush her. Don't wanna make her think this is just some conquest, or that I'm taking advantage of her when she's vulnerable.

So I wait. I suffer. And every time I try to bring up where we stand, something fucks it up—either she gets distracted, or I chicken out because what if she doesn't want the same thing?

But Christ, I need her. All of her. And soon.

Her eyes lock on the tent in my sweatpants, and fuck me, I can't hide it. My cock's bulging hard, straining against the fabric like it's trying to escape, throbbing every time she so much as breathes. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and I know I'm fucked. "Do you want some help with this?" she murmurs, her voice still rough from screaming my name, raw and throaty like she's been gargling whiskey and sin.

My jaw clenches so tight I swear I'll crack a tooth, but I can't stop my hips from jerking forward, my dick twitching like it's got a mind of its own. "Don't worry about it," I growl, though my cock's already leaking pre-cum, soaking through the fabric like a fucking faucet. "Tonight was about you."

"Bullshit," she breathes, her fingers sliding down my waistband before I can stop her. Her fingertips brush against the swollen head of my cock, smearing the pre-cum down my shaft, and fuck, I groan like an animal. "This doesn't look like not worrying."

My hips buck into her hand, and I curse under my breath. She presses harder, her nails scraping lightly against my skin, and I'm fucking done. "You really wanna tell me you don't need me to drop to my knees and suck it clean?" she whispers, her voice dripping with filth. "Or should I just ride you raw until you forget your own damn name?"

I grab her hip hard enough to bruise, my fingers digging into her flesh. "You talk too much, trouble," I snarl, but she's already peeling my sweats down, freeing my cock—Jesus fucking Christ—thick, flushed, and drooling slick pre-cum down the shaft.

The unmistakable hunger in her eyes damn near wipes every rational thought from my head. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted, and she's staring at me with this almost ravenous fascination, like wanting me has swallowed up every other thought in that beautiful fucking head of hers. There's nothing coy about it. Nothing uncertain. Just pure, shameless desire, so intense I swear I can practically feel it rolling off her.

And fuck, it's intoxicating.

Ten nights. I've spent ten fucking nights trying to be patient, trying to do the honorable thing and convince myself that I have enough self-control to keep wanting more without taking it. But apparently even I have my limits, and Taylor Lewis looking at me like she wants to fucking devour me is one of them.

Whatever noble bullshit I've been clinging to goes straight out the fucking window.

Fuck it.

She wants me. I can see exactly how badly she wants me, and I'm done pretending I don't desperately want the same thing.

Maybe tonight is finally the night my suffering ends.