I didn't know what excited me more: the secrecy of our intimate moment or our intimate moment itself. There was something thrilling about the crowds beneath us, dancing and drinking, while Mickey touched me so tenderly—her lips pecking my neck, forearms supporting her body weight, one knee resting between my thighs.
"My Majesty," she whispered. Her voice created a waterfall within me. "How can I make it up to you?"
"I've gotten immune to prejudice," I replied and caressed her cheeks. "You aren't the first one who thinks I give zero fucks when in reality, I give plenty."
"Not the answer I was hoping for." She smirked.
"Then . . . however you want to, my knight," I demanded, pulling her closer. That was an absurd and weird thing to call her, I thought, disgusted at myself. But not to Mickey. She had this glimmer in her eyes that told me that these were the words she exactly wanted to hear.
"Do you mean it? However I want to?"
"I hate repeating my orders twice."
"Fuck."
I wanted to give another cringeworthy comment about not throwing away cusses around "her queen" and be more dedicated to this role-playing she initiated, but Mickey was already crawling down between my legs. I shut my mouth, bit my lip, and savored her vulgarity and mine.
I rubbed my sensitive spot to her mouth, maximizing her tongue, as her hands cupped a small area of my butt cheeks, which controlled the up-and-down swaying movement of my hips. The noises became a blur, but the sound of our pants was clear.
"Mickey . . . Mickey . . ."
She looked at me, her foxlike eyes asking what I begged for. I wanted to say that I was near my limit, but her gaze triggered me to climax, unfortunately.
"Fuck, fuck—"
The electrifying sensation was already too much to handle, but Mickey continued to suck whatever energy I had left. I aggressively grabbed her hair, my thighs literally shaking from the intense pleasure, and almost begged her to stop. Glad I didn't . . . or else she wouldn't hammer her fingers inside me until my soul left my body.
Silence. Just breaths of exhaustion from a euphoric sex session. The most logical aftermath of what just happened.
Taking a shower before going here was a good idea after all.
"However you want to . . ." I said in between my breaths and laughed before pulling myself up. "Where's the restroom."
"For? Round two?" she replied, smirking, reaching for my hand.
I rolled my eyes and threw some wet wipes. "Clean yourself, silly."
We walked giggling toward the restroom. The heels of my boots made sharp click-clack sounds on the black marble tiled floor of the luxurious restroom as I hastily ran toward the first cubicle. Still in ecstasy, I was about to joke how we could've done the love-making session here instead of the floor in the VIP area, but my mood sank when I was reminded yet again of my remaining days.
Of course, this was a restroom; mirrors were installed by the sink.
A hundred and twenty-five.
"It's past midnight."
Mickey wiped her mouth with a towel. "I'm not sure. I don't think so."
"I'm not asking."
"How'd you know?" She glanced at my wrist to see I was not wearing a watch. She glanced at hers, though. "Yeah, you're right. Time moves fast with you, I barely even noticed."
YOU ARE READING
181 Days of Madeline Jesty
General FictionMadeline Jesty Jacobs received an unexpected gift on the night of her seventh birthday -- she could see hourglasses on top of everybody's heads in just one taste of alcohol, an indication of what she thought was their life span. This unknown phenome...