Work Text:
No, that sounds a little too much like Dear John. She can do this without clichés.
Too many romance novels, Veronica. Plus, he didn’t take the hint when you told him to his face, he might take the “dearest” to heart. Be direct. Keep the emotion out of it.
Probably not helping. A little too honest. Okay. Direct, but not honest.
A scraping sensation tickles her ankle bone. Uncrossing her ankles from the coffee table, she scratches at it with her toe.
Turning the page, she starts with a fresh sheet of paper.
It happens again. She leans over her notebook to scratch it properly, idly wondering if she left a window open. They really needed to get that screen repaired.
The scraping sensation moves higher, gliding over her calf, sending goosebumps across her skin. She continues to write, saying into the empty air, “I’m busy, Logan.”
Her panties slide down legs (and, okay, maybe she lifted her hips to help a little ). A thrill runs through her as they go flying across the room. Spending all day in her sleep shirt was an excellent idea.
She schools her features into indifference.
“Logan, I’m not in the mood, I have a letter to write. You know, the one you insisted I write.”
“Who’s stopping you?” His answer comes from the left of the sofa.
Scribbling again, she says, “You’re right, there’s nothing here that’s remotely interesting.”
Large hands spread her legs. God, how does he move so fast, he’s like a fucking cat.
“Write your letter, Veronica, there’s nothing interesting to distract you.” Fingers spread her pussy lips apart, exposing her clit to the cool air.
Fuck.
“You’re not writing.”
She begins scribbling madly.
He gives her slit one long, broad stroke with his tongue. The pen falls from her hand.
“Mmm,” he purrs and it goes straight to her core. Spreading her legs further, she rests her calves on his shoulders. She may not be able to see him, but she knows the exact span of his head, the width of his shoulders, the feel of his tongue stroking her to madness.
He pulls away and two fingers dip into her, drawing out the wetness, spreading it up, circling her clit with those long, talented fingers, never quite touching just where she wants him. All the sensation in her body focuses there. Her hips twitch, searching for the friction she craves.
“You dropped something,” he reminds her.
Asshole. Would serve him right if she ends up snapping his precious Monte Blanc in the process. She picks up the pen.
Grunting in approval, he latches on her clit, teasing, licking, sucking.
Fuck it. She tosses the pen and notebook on the floor and grips the sofa cushion for leverage as she presses herself to his face, need rushing through her body.
Each flick of his tongue, each drag against that bundle of nerves has her trembling, straining, aching for more. She’s close.
She presses a hand to his head. “I need to see you.”
A pause, then he flicks into view. His eyes, full of love and adoration never leave hers as he laps relentlessly at her clit. Her heart turns over even as her body hurtles towards the edge. He holds her gaze steady and licks, over and over and ov—
Fuck.
Coming on a keening wail, he licks her through her orgasm, slowing to the barest of touches as she winds down.
She collapses on the couch.
Pressing a smacking kiss to the top of her slit, he wipes his mouth with the bottom of her shirt, and climbs up on the couch next to her. Throwing an arm around her, he rests his head on her shoulder. “Hey, Bobcat.”
“Oh, no,” she says, pushing his head off of her.
His pout morphs to a grin when she throws a leg over him.
Straddling him, she slides him inside.
“We’re not done yet.”
Later that evening, when she’s sure he’s asleep this time this time, she pulls out her pen and paper again.
