Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

"I just want a little taste first, Falon." He nods towards my panties. "I think about it all the time."

I don't stop him as he kisses a gentle path down my body, stopping to circle his tongue over one nipple and then the other. I squirm under the touch, the sensitive points hardening to an ache when he blows on them.

"My panties, Asher," I gasp as his tongue dives into my belly button. "Take them off."

"Not yet," he growls as his hand snakes under my ass to grab the flesh. "I want to taste you through the lace first. I want to know what that's like."

"It's torture," I mutter under my breath. It is. His tongue is a wonder unto itself. He's eaten me before, his mouth kissing my sensitive folds the same way he does my mouth. It's with patience and pleasure. He took his time, savoring my pussy the way a man might a delicious meal, without any rush or sense of time.

I came more than once that first night when his tongue was stripping away every ounce of resistance I might have had. He's made me crave it again now and even though I know he's close to giving me what I want, it feels so far away; too far away.

I buck my hips hoping that he'll sense my impatience. He does. He chuckles as he rests his lips against the lace of my panties. "I can smell you, Falon. I can smell your sweetness. You're my addiction now."

I almost scream aloud as I tug on the strands of his hair that I've wrapped my fingers around. "Please, Asher. I want to come."

"I'll make you come." He lashes his tongue over the lace. "I'll make you come again and again."

I squirm beneath him even though he's now got me pinned to the bed. His strong shoulder has my thigh pressed to the soft blanket, exposing me.

He curves his index finger under the lace, the very tip of it running over my cleft.

I close my eyes, breathless, as I finally feel his tongue touch my swollen clit.

CHAPTER 30

Asher

I cup my hands over my nose and mouth, breathing in the scent. It's her. It's the smell of Falon's arousal. I ate her for so long that she quivered in my arms when I finally stopped, her voice no more than a whisper when she told me she needed a minute. That minute turned into an hour and now two. She fell asleep with her head resting on my bicep, her legs entangled with mine.

I was hard, so fucking hard, that I was tempted to fist my cock until I came while she slept beside me but watching her sleep and listening to her breathe was enough to take th

e edge off. I know I'll have her when she wakes up.

When she rolled onto her back and away from me, I felt deprived at the loss of her touch. I've seldom spent an entire night with a woman since I've been sober. It's not because I don't allow women in my bed, or I hate sharing the covers, it's just not who I am.

I crave solitude. I need it to write and to create. The difference now is that I'm at the dining room table, a notepad open in front of me while I jot down lyrics for a song about Falon. I have to express it this way. This is how I feel. I put it in lyrics and set it to music.

"You weren't next to me when I woke up." Her voice is low and throaty.

I turn towards the bedroom to see her standing in the doorway, a sheet wrapped around her body. I can barely make out her features in the dim light. I don't need to. I memorized every inch of her face when she asleep.

"I'm writing." I tap the seat of the chair next to me. "Come and sit with me."

"You could come back to bed," she coaxes. "We can finish what we started."

My cock hardens at the palpable need in her voice. I love that she can't get enough of me either. "We will. You'll sit with me first and then I'll fuck you on this table."

"On the table," she repeats quietly as she walks toward me before lowering herself, and the sheet that's covering her into the chair.

"I'm writing a song." I tap the point of the pencil against the paper. "I write best at night."

She bites her bottom lip as her eyes drop from my face to the paper. She edges forward on the chair, twisting her neck slightly. She's trying to read the words I've jotted down.

They're fragmented thoughts that aren't fleshed out yet. They wouldn’t mean a thing to her so I spin the paper around so she can read it.

She arches her brow. "May I?"

"Be my guest." I drop the pencil and lean back on the chair, crossing my arms over my bare chest. I'd put on a pair of dark sweatpants after I left the bed, but I didn't bother with a shirt. The air conditioning is on high, but it's still warm in here. Besides, I like the way she studies my tattoos when I'm shirtless. I'm waiting for the day when she asks me what they mean.