‘Mm,’ he said, raising his head. ‘Getting it ready for me, babe?’
His tongue drew lines and swirls in her warm cream coating, sucking it from her skin until it was bare again, but shiny from his attentions.
He made her wait, kissing every inch of her upper body, before lowering his face between her thighs. He took his hand away from the crushed strawberries and flicked his glance towards her face.
‘Time for my just desserts, then, eh? Sorry.’
Her groan at the joke was soon transformed into another kind of outpouring. The workings of his tongue and lips on her sweet, fruity centre melted her until she was pure juice, gushing into his mouth. He devoured her, feasting off her clit, her lips, her widespread inner core, until she was dizzy with it and her orgasm began to circle wildly into being.
The climax pushed her bottom off the floor into his greedy face, making him laugh on her pussy and lick harder.
‘Oh God,’ she cried. ‘What are you? Oh God, oh, God, oh God!’
When he finally knelt up, sometime after her third orgasm, and set her free from the tyranny of her own body and sex, he had a glow of feral victory in his eye that made her pulse race, despite her ragged state.
‘Never been licked like that before, eh?’ he panted.
She could only shake her head.
‘Those big Hollywood dicks can’t do it like this Bledburn boy, eh?’
Again, a shake of the head.
‘You’re something else,’ she managed to say.
It took some effort of will, but she propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at her ravaged body, sticky and patterned here and there with drying pink fruit pulp. Then she looked up at Jason, kneeling in only his boxers, which were significantly tented.
Fair was fair.
She dragged herself to her knees and rummaged in the shopping bags.
‘What you looking for?’ he asked, amused, guessing her intent.
‘Just … Hmm, Madras curry paste, probably not.’
‘Fuck, no!’
‘Peanut butter?’
He shook his head rapidly. ‘I’m allergic.’
‘What about Marmite?’
He laughed loudly.
‘Whatever turns you on, darlin’.’
‘Not Marmite. Ah. Now.’
She smiled radiantly at him, drawing from the bag a jar of lemon curd.
‘I haven’t had that in years,’ he said. ‘Used to love it in a sarnie.’
‘A sarnie isn’t what I have in mind. More like a breadstick.’
‘Breadstick? Don’t take the piss. This ain’t no breadstick.’
He lowered the waistband of his boxers over the straining lump, unveiling the rampant beast within.