With his mother-loving teeth! I can’t even!
I’d read this particular scene in many romance novels; I’d never experienced it in real life. I always wondered how exactly that would happen. Did he take a big bite of the part over your hip? Use one canine to peel it off from the front? Sexy novels only mentioned teeth, so would lips be cheating? And speaking of cheating, if he used his hands to assist, but the teeth were the primary method for panty removal, would that be legal?
Romance novels, schmomance novels, here’s how Wallbanger does it.
Hands went inside my skirt from either side as soon as we cleared the front door. As he guided me backward through the darkened apartment, his mouth was on my neck and his hands inside my bra, when the back of my thighs met the sofa.
Which I then had the honor of feeling with my eyeballs when I hit the pillows face-first, after he’d spun me and pushed me over the arm with my bum in the air. Think I even noticed that I had a forehead full of sofa? Hell no, I had a Wallbanger kneeling between my legs.
Wet kisses were smacked along the back of my legs as my skirt was lifted and placed out of his way. I felt his hands nudging my knees apart, felt his warm breath on the inside of my thighs as his fingers dipped inside the lace of my panties. Had I dressed up for my man? Oh hell, yes.
White. Lacey. Sweet. Guaranteed to make him pant. Which he was doing now, heavily. He kissed me through the silk, his tongue pointed and strong even through the barrier. I cried out, having been ready for that mouth ever since he pushed me up against the railing in the restaurant.
With his hands wrapped around my waist, he pressed down on the small of my back, angling me toward his face. Growling—and I swear that’s the only way I can describe the guttural noises coming from the back of his throat—he grasped the top of my panties in his teeth and tugged. Down my thighs and toward my knees, and that’s as far as they went, because: Simon. Was. Impatient.
With my ass in the air and my panties at my knees, he groaned.
“Mmm, there’s that sweet *.”
Not all men can handle the P-word. And boy, is that a mouthful. Ahem. Some say it all the time, some use it in common conversation. But a good P-word is all about placement: when to say it, where to say, how to say it. Dirty talk is an art. Do it too often, it becomes routine. Never do it, and you’re missing something. Simon did it just right. He was like a perfect bowl of smutty porridge: just right. Let’s get back to that mouthful . . .
I was done for even before his lips hit mine. And I meant that exactly how I said it.
There are nights when I need it slow. And there are nights when I need it sweet. And then there are nights when I need it fast and filthy.
Guess which night this was?
I came twice on his mouth. And twice more when he stood, unzipped, and plunged into me with one swift stroke. With one hand flat on my back and the other pulling my hair to angle me exactly how he needed it? Hell, yes.
It was deep and hard and intense. And so very fast and filthy.
Was I still wearing my heels when he finally brought it on home and shouted my name? Good gracious, yes.
? ? ?
Later on, piled into a pile on the couch with Simon using my hip as a pillow, I heard my phone ringing. Which was in my purse, barely inside the door. I lifted my head, looking over my shoulder and reaching with my hand. Knowing it was still ten feet away.
“I can’t reach my phone.”
“You don’t need your phone.”
“But it’s ringing.”
“Pretty sure it’s not,” he insisted, twisting around behind me.
The phone stopped ringing and I sank back against the cushions. Then it promptly starting ringing again.
“I can’t reach my phone,” I repeated dumbly. Being plowed like that will make you a little thick in the head. “Hey, did you just bite me?”
“You don’t need your phone. And yes, I did. I’ve got two scoops of delicious staring me right in the face.”
He had indeed bitten one of the two scoops. I rolled my eyes, and tried to actually go for the phone.
“Don’t take away my scoops, Caroline, I’m warning you.”
“Oh, scoop this,” I teased, managing to sneak out from under him and hobble over to my purse, pulling my skirt down as I went. As I dug for my phone, I looked back at Simon, prone on the couch still with his pants around his ankles.
“You look charming, babe.”
“Charm this,” he mimicked, gesturing to a very specific part of his body.
With a laugh, I looked at my phone, seeing that it was Sophia. It was after midnight. I frowned and called her back.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Why does there have to be something wrong?” Her voice was low.
“How long have I known you? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t say anything, but I could hear her. Sniffling.
“Is it the wedding?”
Sniff.
“You don’t think you want to go?”
Sniff sniff.
“Because you’re gonna see Neil?”
Honk. Kleenex, not car.
“Sweetie, you know you have to go, right?”