Undecided(75)

“Hmm…” He licks me again, agonizingly slow. And he licks everywhere. Inside, outside and all around.

I lift my head to see him crouched down there, my legs splayed around his shoulders, his auburn hair dark against the pale skin of my stomach.

“Crosbie,” I whisper.

His head comes up, mouth damp, eyes blazing when they meet mine. “Any more requests?”

My head thunks back into the pillow. “Please don’t ever stop.”

He chuckles and kisses me, drawing my most delicate flesh against his teeth. “I want you to say something,” he says.

I give an exaggerated sigh and reach down to pat his shoulder. “Thank you for showing me your ‘trick,’” I say obediently.

He laughs again and pushes two fingers inside me, feeling around until he finds what he’s looking for. My hips buck up but he’s ready for it, his free hand pressing into my stomach and holding me down.

I squeak. “What do you want me to say?” I plead, writhing against his devious fingers.

“Say, ‘Crosbie, eat my *.’”

My head jerks up. “I can’t say that!”

“Why not?” He holds my stare as he slowly licks my clit.

I beg with my eyes. “It’s… I’m not…”

“That’s not what you want?” He stops, blinking in faux concern.

“You know that’s what I want!”

He glances down at my *, his fingers still twisting inside. “Yeah, I do. And I want to hear you say it. Come on, Nora. It makes me hot.”

I lift a foot to weakly kick at his arm. “You’re already hot.”

“Nice try.”

“Crosbie. Please…”

“Three more words,” he says, punctuating each of his words with another torturous kiss. “You’re very close.” I’m so close that if he said six words, I’d probably be able to come.

I cover my eyes with my hands, feeling my burning skin against my palms. “Eat my *,” I say hastily.

“Nora,” he groans, putting his talented mouth back to work. “I’d love to.”



*



“So, is it serious?” Marcela asks as we make donuts on Wednesday. “Are you two in love?”

“What?” I concentrate on dropping dough into the fryer without splashing myself. “No, we’re not in love. It’s been a month.”

“You seem happy.”

“I am.”

“So does he.”

“Of course he is. He’s with me.”

I set the timer and turn to Marcela, who’s perched against the sanitizer, slurping on an iced coffee. “How about you?” I ask.

“What about me?”

“How’s Kellan?”

She shrugs. “Fine.”

“How’s Nate?”

She scowls and bites her straw. “He and Celestia are off to cut down a Christmas tree for her apartment. That’s why he’s not working.”

“They picked the right day. I don’t know the last time we saw sunshine.”

Her expression darkens even further. “You know what Kellan and I did last night?”

“Please don’t tell me.”

“Facebook stalked strangers for two hours, trying to find the backpackers he hooked up with over the summer.”

“That’s…romantic?”

“I don’t want romance.”

“Then you’re with the right guy.”

“You didn’t want it either, last year. You just wanted to have fun and not worry about things.”

“Yeah. That all came to a crashing halt when I got arrested.”

She tries not to laugh but comes up short. “I knew,” she says after a second.

I start fishing out donuts, resting them on a metal rack. “That I would get arrested?”

“That it was Nate.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Last year. The secret admirer. I knew right away it was him.”

I stop what I’m doing and look at her in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah. I just didn’t…want it. I mean, it was sweet, but nobody thinks about coming to college and settling down, you know? And Nate’s that guy. He’s the guy who cuts his own Christmas tree.”

“You said you didn’t want it,” I say after a moment. “Past tense. What about now?”

She sighs and slurps up the last of her drink, sticking the glass in the rack to be cleaned. “Now it’s too late.”

“What’s too late?”

We both whirl to see Nate standing at the back entrance, dressed for tree chopping in a fitted plaid lumberjack coat, heavy boots, and skinny jeans. Well, sort of dressed for tree chopping. He strides to the sink and starts washing his hands, completely oblivious.

Marcela and I exchange looks and I slowly shake my head. He didn’t overhear.

“The donuts,” Marcela says eventually. “We forgot two and now they’re burnt.”

“Aw.” Nate dries his hands on a paper towel and walks over to check in the fryer, where I have indeed left two donuts to die. “Come on, Nora,” he chides me. “Food costs.”