Page 177 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“Anyone can walk past the trees and see us.”
“Kiss the tip,” I negotiated, and I never fucking negotiated. “With your tongue.”
She wanted to. Her tongue slipped past her plump lips, begging to lick my cock. I ran a hand through her hair and gripped it near the base of her head. Instead of leading her mouth to my cock, I tilted her head up and slammed my lips onto hers.
Shit.
Motherfucker.
Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.
What the hell was I doing?
The caddy yelled our names in the distance. We broke apart. I swallowed each of Emery's pants.
Her wide eyes met mine. “You promised to make me come.”
Without a word, I kneeled, fully aware she was the one who was supposed to kneel and take me in her mouth. I lifted her dress, spread her pussy lips, and licked the entire slit. She cried out, clutching onto my hair.
I slid my tongue inside her, savoring her taste. As the caddy's footsteps came closer, I pushed two fingers inside her and sucked on her clit. She came hard, nearly pulling my hair out of my head with her fingers.
When the caddy called Emery’s name again, I yelled out, “She’s coming!”
Her body shook with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She clutched my shoulders and steadied her breathing. “My panties—”
I cut her off. “—are mine.”
She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue. In fact, she had that glint in her eyes that told me she loved this.
I walked back with Emery's panties in my pocket, grass stains on my knees, the taste of her on my lips, and an erection the size of a skyscraper.
This was the type of shit that spiraled, and next thing I knew, it’d be plastered all over tabloids that I fucked the twenty-two-year-old daughter of the face of embezzlement.
This was definitely not okay.
But it fucking felt great.
The general IQ of the fine people of Eastridge, North Carolina sat somewhere between Americans who can’t locate America on a map and people who believe the Earth is flat. At least, it felt like that as I overheard four different conversations about the necessity of muslin washcloths.
Between the mundane chatter, gossip of me ran rampant, occasionally brushing over the pending black eye I sported.
“He’s so damaged. Ugh, and he always looks so tortured. Why does that make him hotter?”
I don’t know, Stepford #1. Perhaps you should seek therapy for that. (For the record, I am tortured by this brunch, which isn’t even a word.)
“My neighbor told me he gave her the best sex she’s ever had at last week’s gender reveal party.”
My blue balls can attest that I haven’t fucked your neighbor, and I’d sooner show up to a swingers’ night at a retirement community than a fucking gender reveal party.
“I told my wife he's a thug. Look at his eye. Once a poor kid, always a poor kid.”
Cool story, bro. It’d mean more if you hadn’t passed me your business card as soon as I entered the restaurant.
Our group sat at a table in the center, which Virginia informed us was the best seat in the house.
“I’m looking into becoming a Sir.” Balthazar lifted his chin as if what he said should have impressed us. “You’ll all have to call me Sir once it happens.”
It could have been a joke, but he seemed like the type to expect it.
