You really wanna know about the best time? Well, there was this one guy, back when I was in school. But you have to promise you won’t tell Max. Okay?
At first, I thought Jimmy was just really into foreplay. He’d say, “Can I touch you?” And before I was done nodding, he’d have reached out a calloused hand to my body, maybe resting it on one of my thighs or against my belly for a second, but he was always only interested in my pussy. His eyes would glaze a little, he’d moisten his lips and get focused like a cat.
When Jimmy really got going, my pussy would feel like it was molten, you know? All melty and hot, like—well, I’m getting ahead of myself here.
Jimmy, with that mouth and tongue, those lips. He’d push up every single pillow behind me and set me back against them, prop my feet up and over to either side of my mussed single bed. After he’d sort of enthroned me, got my butt and hips propped up and thighs splayed, he’d just sit back for a minute and look at me, those ruddy cheeks flushing and his eyes bright and almost⎯if it weren’t for the cocky set to his jaw, the way his grin pulled a little too tight to one side of his mouth so you’d never be sure he wasn’t about to crack up⎯almost reverent.
He never did, though⎯never cracked up, never laughed at me. He just liked to keep me perched on that edge of nerves. But really, maybe I just couldn’t read him, after all those months, and there was something else altogether going on behind those eyes and that half-cracked grin.
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