Million Dollar Baby (complete)

Getting vamped up

BPOV

Justin left me alone for the better part of a week after the epic fail of a trip we made to the lingerie shop, or what the Cooch and I were now commonly referring to as Pussy Galore's House for Two-Timing Cûnt Fuçkers.

I wasn't jealous. I swear. It was the Cooch. She was royally pissed and throwing up picket signs all over the damn place. The Wonder Peen was going to have to kiss some major...puss...to win her over again. He might be able to get away with another one of those fuckawesome cliț spankings.

I went to bed before Justin, but I was only faking sleep when he crawled under the covers. My feelings were a tad bit hurt that he kept his back to me and an insane amount of space between us. No naked spooning or forking, no boob gropage...nothing.

The next morning, I woke before he did. He was still sleeping when I got out of my shower, and that's even after I made as much noise as I could to purposely wake him up. Don't ask me why I did it, because I really don't know. I might have sort of missed the bastard.

I even strolled into the bedroom butt booty-assed naked, rummaged around in his closet for something to wear, accidentally on purpose knocked a couple pair of his shoes to the floor (and left them there) and then closed the door harder than what was necessary. Fuçking nothing.

So, I had to check the man's pulse, right? I mean because who in the hell can sleep through all that?

But then my stomach made this noise that sounded something like, "Feed me, bitçh" - no shìt, it sounded exactly like that - and I distinctly remembered seeing a box of Frosted Flakes in the pantry. And well, they're grrrrrrrrreat and all, so what was a girl to do?

Meh, I shrugged, if he's dead, he's dead. Tony the Tiger was my friend, where Justin "Whoremonging" Anderson was not.

Really, I should probably stop holding grudges.

I had just slurped down the last of the sweetened milk in my bowl and set it in the sink when Justin finally emerged. God help me, he was standing there with towel-dried wet hair, a pair of distressed low-rise jeans and absolutely nothing else - except the little black band of his Calvin Kleins underneath. So, let me say this...naked Justin is glorious, but half-naked Justin, in nothing but a pair of blue jeans...thud. That was me passing the fùck out from all his omigod-I-just-totally-creamed-myself-ness.

That little trail of hair that led from his belly button to the wonders that lie beneath...totally lickable. And by wonders, I mean his morning woody was apparently still in full effect because that was one gargantuan bulge beneath that denim.

The Cooch crossed her arms defiantly and turned her back on him. She refused to look at or even acknowledge the Wonder Peen's presence.

"Good morning, Isabella," he said as he ran his porntastic fingers through his hair.

"Good morning, Wonder Peen...uh, I mean, Justin." Stupid, stupid Bella!

Justin arched an eyebrow at me and then shuffled his bare feet in my direction. The closer he got, the further I backed away, until I had backed all the way up against the sink. He placed his hands on the counter and caged me in before he dipped his head and gave me a toe-curling kiss.

Double Agent Coochie turned to look over her shoulder and then quickly turned back around, remembering that she was still a pīssed at him.

He tasted all minty fresh and I seriously considered sucking on his tongue, but that would give him the impression that I wanted his attentions. And although you and I know that's true, he didn't and I saw no reason to clue him in.

He rounded out the kiss with a suckle to my bottom lip and then dove straight in on my neck as he leaned his body into mine. The gargantuan bulge pressed into my girly region and the Cooch's resistance waivered. Strong arms wrapped around my waist and Justin held me to him as he continued to wantonly knead my flesh. His neck was on display in front of my lips, the veins taut and alluring. I couldn't help myself. I had to taste him.