Sunny’s eyes close, and she bites her lip.
“And all those little moans when I find the right spot.” I slip one finger inside, and she makes the sound I’m hoping for. “Just like that.”
I add another finger, going deeper until her cheeks flush and her mouth drops open. She clutches my forearm.
“Holy—” she gasps. “Sweet—oh, God. I—Miller.” She draws out my name, eyes wide, her expression reflecting her need.
“Am I hitting the right spot?”
She nods furiously, her grip tightening. “You always hit the right spot.”
“Want me to fumble around a little?”
“No!” She digs her nails into my skin. “I’m right th—”
She contracts around my fingers, showing me what she was about to tell me. Sunny’s eyes meet mine, wide with shock. I don’t know why she’s always so surprised when she comes, like it’s unexpected.
She releases my arm and grabs my shoulders, pulling me forward until our lips collide. Her tongue shoots into my mouth, twisting with mine as she moans. I feel like the motherpucking man.
That is until she breaks the kiss, flops back in the chair, and says, “I kinda hate that you’re so good at that.”
There’s a bite to her words. Looks like she’s not as over the social media stuff as she thinks. I remove my hand from inside her panties, adjusting her underwear so they’re back in place, and lower her leg to the floor. “You hate that I can make you come with my fingers? Yeah, I can see how that’s real unfortunate. I can always pretend I don’t know what I’m doing.” I make a joke out of it, but there’s a weight in my chest. I don’t like it. I can’t help that I’m good at the sex.
“I don’t mean it the way you’re taking it.” She cups the back of my head to stop me from moving away. “It’s just that I come every time. What if I can’t do the same for you? It’s a lot of pressure, and I don’t have nearly as much practice . . .” She lets the sentence hang.
“You’re worried about not being able to get me off?” I sound confused because, well, I don’t get it. There isn’t much skill involved in stroking a cock. It’s essentially an up and down motion. Women aren’t nearly as mechanically simple.
“Well, yeah. I mean that happens, right? Sometimes guys can’t—”
“Blast the cannon?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess. I mean, I’d have to have some serious whiskey dick, or maybe if I whacked off, like, twenty times that day I might have a problem, but a strong breeze is usually enough to get me hard.”
Her eyes dart down, and her hand moves from my chest to my waistband, palming me. “You’re already hard.”
“Uh, yeah. I got to watch you come on my fingers. For sure I’m hard.”
“That turns you on?” I can’t tell if she’s surprised or curious.
“Definitely.”
She gives me a squeeze. “Fingering me made you this hard?”
Those words coming out of her mouth, combined with the feel of her hand on my dick, even through my shorts, reroutes even more blood below my waist. There are a lot of factors that got me to this level of hardness. It’s the argument, followed by the make-out session, and the way I can still see her nipples through her shirt because her bra is pushed up. It’s how she’s sitting in the chair, that she’s fully dressed, that I watched what I was doing while I was getting her off—all of it together makes me this hard. And the fact that I haven’t whacked it since yesterday morning.
But the simple answer is, “Yeah. Fingering you makes me this hard.”
“Oh. That’s . . . wow. I make you really hard.”
I hold back a laugh. “You sure fucking do, Sunny Sunshine.”
She goes for the zipper, and I put my hand over hers.