Block Shot (Hoops #2)(13)

Sometimes a dish carries a scent so rich you taste it before it hits your tongue. Your olfactory sense preludes your taste buds. That’s Banner’s pussy, so sweet and musky it’s as much flavor as scent, and I taste her before even taking my first bite, my first sip. Before my tongue swipes through the soaked silky folds. I spread her, and for a few seconds content myself by simply rubbing my lips between hers, gathering her wetness and licking it away.

“Hěn hào chī,” I say softly, a wicked grin she can’t see to appreciate stamped on my face.

Very delicious.

“Oh my God.” A laugh swallows her gasp. Her knees jerk against my head, but I press them open wider, determined that she may have denied me sight, but I’ll taste; I’ll eat as much as I want. I feast between her legs, sloppily, roughly, famished. My face is wet, and my tongue aches by the time I’m done. She’s making these little sobbing sounds that have me so close to spilling all over her belly. Her hands rifle through my hair, scraping my scalp while she grinds her pussy in my face.

“Chinga,” she whispers.

“What’d you say?” I demand, lifting my head.

A silence follows before she answers.

“Nothing,” she replies hastily. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s Spanish?” I persist. “What does it mean?”

“Jared,” she groans. “Don’t.”

“Tell me or I leave you just like this.”

It’s an empty threat because leaving her “just like this” means leaving me “just like this,” and there’s no way this ends any way other than me inside her.

“What’s chinga mean, Ban?”

“It means . . .” There’s resignation and reluctance in her sigh. “Fuck. It means fuck, okay?”

“Ahhh, like fuck,” I say, lowering my head and closing my mouth over her clit again. “That feels good?”

“Oh, God,” she pants. “Yeah.”

“Like fuck . . .” I drag my tongue from her asshole to the top of her slit “. . . Don’t stop?”

“Please,” she begs, her fingers twisting in my hair. “Please, don’t stop.”

I fumble around on the floor until I find my jeans and reach into the pocket for my wallet. This, I’ve done in the dark. I could put on a condom in a coma.

The narrowness of the sofa makes it awkward, so I sit on the couch, find her in the dark, and tug her to her knees. And the same way I felt her pleasure, I feel her freeze and then pull back, away.

“Uh, no.” She clears her throat. “You get on top.”

Whatever. On top. Underneath. On the side. In is all I care about right now. Back on my knees at the end of the couch, I bring her legs over my shoulders. I touch her again, and she’s still dripping wet, slick, hot. I poise myself at her entrance, and though we can’t see each other, I look to where I know her eyes should be, and I sense her looking where mine should be. And even in the dark, I think we see each other. There’s an intimacy to the darkness. I see less of her, but I somehow feel this more deeply. Every smell, every sound, every texture becomes a clue to her pleasure. I plunge in, and we both gasp. She clamps around me. Is she a virgin? I didn’t even think to ask. I should have.

“You okay, Ban? You’ve . . . uh, done this before, right?”

“Yes, it’s just . . . just been awhile. Is everything okay?”

Okay? Is nirvana okay? Is utopia okay? Because that is what Banner’s tight-fisted pussy feels like around my hungry cock. Like someone tossed paradise and heaven into a blender to make this moment.

“Yeah, it’s good,” I say.

Understatement. No need to reveal her pussy sent me into an existential crisis.

I withdraw only for a second and to the very tip, but it feels like torture until I push back in. She surrounds me. The smell of her invading my nostrils, the taste of her lingering on my tongue, the feel of her gripping not just my cock but my whole body.

Banner Morales has a hold on me.

“Chinga,” I whisper in her ear with my next thrust.

“God, Jared.” She tightens around me.

“Chinga,” I say again, plunging in as far as her body will allow. I want to reach the bottom, to mark and claim her from the inside out.

“Sí, sí,” she pants, her English disintegrating. “Por favor.”

The sound of her begging in her first language, knowing we’ve stripped away not just the layers of lumpy sweatshirt and baggy pants but the layers we hide behind and use to protect ourselves have evaporated, undoes me. Her body contracts around me, and I empty into her with a roar that reiterates what I told her earlier tonight. Darwin. Maslow. Who cares. In the end, we are just animals. Primitives driven by urges we barely understand but, with the right person, find ourselves slave to.

Banner’s the right person.

I don’t care if her internship is on the Moon, there’s no way this was the last time. We’ll do it again, the sooner the better. And I guarantee the next time I have her, there will be light.





5





Banner





Aftershock.

How the earth tremors following a seismic disruption. A result of great upheaval at the core.