Page 113 of Bitter’s Sweet

The command should not feel like permission.

It does.

I let go.

The orgasm crashes through me so hard I yank his hair and cry out his name. Bitter growls against my pussy and keeps licking me through it until I have to pull at his shoulders because I cannot take another second.

He rises over me grinning like a bastard.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I might.”

“You just came in my mouth.”

My entire face catches fire. “Jesus Christ.”

He kisses me.

I taste myself on his lips.

That should be too much. Instead, it makes something inside me go molten, and I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him harder, tongue in his mouth, tasting exactly what he did to me while his body settles between my thighs.

His cock presses thick and hard against me through his jeans.

I reach down, and Bitter catches my wrist.

I freeze.

His eyes meet mine. “Not stopping you.”

“Then what?”

“Wanting to see if you mean it.”

I pull my hand free and put it right back on him. “I mean it.”

His eyes close for half a second.

I open his belt.

The buckle feels heavy and cold under my fingers, his leather belt worn soft from years of use. There is something stupidly erotic about undoing it while his cut brushes my bare breasts and his boots stay planted between my pink shoes.

I pull the belt loose.

Bitter looks down. “Like that?”

“I think I’m developing a problem with bikers.”

“One biker.”

“That sounded possessive.”

“That sounded accurate.”

I smile, then open his jeans.