I don’t know what that is. But just her use of the word tramp has me angry. That’s not as bad as pissed, but a little worse than mad, and not how I wanted to start my day.
For some reason, Shady decides to take this moment to call again. I’m just before smashing the damn thing when she pulls it from the pocket of my cut and hands it to me. And then I see what she is wearing—my shirt. And I didn’t fucking notice. I feel something in me. I know this feeling. I know it better than any other. Pride. Just the sight of her in my shirt makes my dick stand at attention.
Shady is talking in my ear, but I can’t make out his words. All I can think about is how good she looks in my shirt as she stands to walk over to the window. And how fucking good it makes me feel. And how the more I think about it, the more a feeling I don’t know keeps creeping up inside me. She is walking back toward me, and her hair is everywhere. The sleeves of my shirt are at her elbows and the bottom stops midthigh. Even against the black material, her skin is tan and flawless. I want to fuck her.
I tell Shady I’ll call him back and hang up, not bothering to answer his question of “What the fuck happened last night?”
“Come here,” I tell Saylor, and I watch her bite the corner of her bottom lip. Her face flushes red and she has a hunger in her eyes. A hunger for me. She walks to where I’m still laying and wastes no time straddling my hips. And she’s not wearing panties. And I can feel the wetness of her arousal and the sticky remnants of mine between her legs. Fuck.
I see her arms cross, grabbing the hem of my shirt to remove it. “Leave it,” I command. And she does. Her hands fall to her waist and I sit up, taking her face between my hands. Her lips are pink and full. Her small, perfect nose is dotted with just a few tiny freckles. Her eyes are wide and yesterday’s mascara still sits on them.
She is, without question, the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen. And I remind myself to thank her one day for teaching me the real definition of sexy. It isn’t long legs, high heels, fake tits, red lips, and flawless hair. It’s tanned legs with scars, bare feet, tits that fit perfectly in my hand and mouth, lips that have been kissed too hard, and hair that is a perfect mess—all the time.
Everything seems average compared to Saylor, because she is anything but. I kiss her lips, softly. I taste the morning on her breath, and it’s delicious just because it’s hers. I kiss her slow, taking my time running my tongue through her mouth because I want her to taste just like me. Just like she smells. I know she is sore. I know I’m an asshole. And I don’t care about either. I want her, and by the way her hands are knotted in my hair, she wants me too.
I feel her hand between us, looking for what she wants. When she finds it, I’m hard and thick in her hand. She lifts her body and centers the head of my cock against her slick *. It’s hot and inviting, and I feel her heat sucking me in. I watch as she lowers herself onto me, taking me inch by inch. I’m saying something, a string of cuss words, maybe. I don’t fucking know. All I know is that she feels good. Great. Fucking amazing. And she looks just like she feels.
I see her eyebrows come together. I see her nose scrunch up slightly. I see her mouth gaped open and I feel her heavy breathing across my face. She is pushing through the pain, and my mind fucking thanks her. And so does my cock.
“Just give me a minute.” That’s my girl. Yeah, I fucking said it. My girl. I kiss her. I concentrate on fucking her mouth with mine so my hips don’t jerk and hurt her. Or make her feel rushed. Or show her my weakness of impatience.
I slide my hands under the shirt she is wearing. My shirt. And I find her tits that were molded for my hands. I rub them, squeezing them gently, rubbing my thumbs over her nipples—and it’s just what she needed.
I feel her relax and when she does, she moves. Only a little at first, and then faster. She is inexperienced and I don’t care. I feel her tensing and I think she is uncomfortable doing this. Maybe she doesn’t want to disappoint me. But there is no way she can. I slide my hands to her waist and hold her still, then pull away from her mouth.
“Just rock your hips. Like you’re dancing.” My voice is soft, and I like that I get to use it on her. She does as I say, and it’s better, but she still hasn’t relaxed. She is forcing this and I want her to like this as much as I do. I tighten my hold on her waist and she stops. She is avoiding my eyes and I know she is embarrassed, so I bury my face in her hair and whisper to her.
“Think of a song, baby. A slow song. Move to that rhythm. Don’t worry about what will make me feel good. Do what makes that sweet * feel good.” I keep my face buried in her hair, noticing how she sighed when I called her baby. She really likes that. I kinda like it too.