Narcolepsy (A Love Story)

7: Blake

Bingo. We have a winner.

And apparently a winner that likes being bit. This girl... it's like I've spent my whole life thinking I preferred beer over wine, that all I ever wanted was something hoppy and bitter, a frosty cold bottle on a hot day, and then someone handed me a glass of 18 year-old scotch and I realized how limited my imagination had been. How pedestrian my tastes were.

She wasn't quitting, and she certainly wasn't moving away.

I took this opportunity to change it up again, dropping my knee and catching hold of her legs under her thighs to pull them up towards her chest. One arm held her legs up while I twisted her onto her side, then up so she was kneeling on my stomach with her forehead resting on my chest. I pulled her arms up to rest on either shoulder before grabbing her knees and spreading them apart so she slid down a bit and was straddling me. My cock was aching against the seam in my jeans as the heat of her pussy settled over the top of it, her own jeans stretched taut over her ass and thighs but forming a pocket over her sex. I knew my hand would fit snugly in there, it was just enough gap that my fingers could play unrestricted.

That wasn't helping one bit.

I grabbed her under her armpits so I could slide her up a little — waking up to the cock-monster pressed fully between her legs was a little too far even for me — and almost lost my grip completely because of the surplus of fabric draped around her. Her hoodie had to be at least three sizes too big, and the shirt underneath was sliding around just as loosely. No time to strip them off her this round though, I could feel her start to tense up just as I pressed her cheek against my chest with one hand, making sure my nipple ring was on her lips, and grabbed her ass with the other to press her tight against me. I wanted her to be able to count the ridges of my six-pack with her clit.