Really appreciate it?
Her arms are covering her chest, protecting herself from my censure, I’m sure. She’s fidgeting on her feet, and I flush in embarrassment as I take in her pants still around her fucking ankle.
She leapt so far out of her comfort zone for me that she probably can’t even see its outline anymore, and I treated her like shit, debasing her in her own fucking kitchen. God I’m an asshole. Well, that’s that then. Without giving her a chance to fight me, I grab one arm, pulling it around my shoulder.
“Derrick? What are you—” Her question turns into a squeal as I bend my knees, tuck my arm into her hips, and toss her over my shoulder.
She’s not nearly as big as she seems to think she is. She’s not weightless, I’ll give her that. But I can still carry her with ease, giving her bare ass a smack and taking a second to pull her pants the rest of the way off.
“Derrick, your back!” she exclaims, as I carry her into her room and drop her unceremoniously on her bed.
“What about it?” I ask, then say, “Move to the head of the bed and spread your legs. I’m going to eat that pussy for hours.”
“You have a fucking tattoo!” she says loudly, like she’s informing me of this intelligence for the first time.
“I know. I was there when I got it. Like it? It’s pretty cool huh?”
“Turn around,” she orders, and I turn on the spot, giving her a clear view of the ink on my back.
They are pretty cool, I have to admit. Wings, starting at my spine and filling each shoulder blade to the tip of my arm, and dropping as low as the curve of my ass. The bottoms taper out until a single feather reaches into the band of my pants.
When I’m wearing them at least. I’m honestly surprised she’s just now noticing them. Though, in her defense, I’m not sure she’s seen me from behind without a shirt on.
She’s gaping at me, using her hands on my back to keep me still.
“How did I not see that in the shower?” she asks, shock and wonder lacing her voice.
“Don’t know,” I tell her, grinning ear to ear. “Maybe because your eyes were on other, more important things. Like my dick in your mouth.”
I’m nowhere near done with her, and I take myself in hand as her little fingers run up my sides.
“I mean,” she breathes, genuine awe in her voice, “you look so clean cut from the front, then from the back you’re like some sort of sinfully delicious fallen angel.”
I chuckle at her description, trying to get a peek at her from over my shoulder.
“I watch a lot of Lucifer,” she says unprompted, offering an excuse for her Biblical analogy. She’s not far off base. They were copied from a picture of angel wings.
All of my lovers have seen the tattoos, of course. None have made this big of a deal out of them, though. I like it. I flex my back, knowing how they move with my skin. It almost looks like I’m really ruffling my feathers.
“Like it, huh?” I ask, knowing I’m preening a little under all the attention.
“They’re awesome,” she says, still running her hands up and down my back.
Well, this was fun, but my flagging dick reminds me that I had other things on my mind when I flung her over my shoulder. I turn back around, climbing onto the bed on my knees.
“Spread ‘em, Cobra. I’m hungry. You’re lunch.”
She hesitates, again, and I growl in frustration. What is it with this girl? Most women beg me to eat them out, and this one I have to convince like I’m offering her a flu shot without the sucker.
“Look. I’ll make you a deal. If I can’t have you squirming against my face and coming around my tongue in less than thirty minutes, I’ll leave you alone and never mention it again. But, if I do, you let me fuck you, however I want, for the rest of the weekend.”
“What do I get if you can’t?” she asks, but moves where I told her to, leaning back against the cushions piled against the headboard.
“Well them, I’ll fix that dilapidated porch for you.”
“You’re already doing that,” she says, as I lower myself to my belly between her legs, examining the folds of her clit. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.
“You’re already doing that,” she whimpers, anticipation pulling her voice tight.
“Then I guess this is a win-win situation for you.”
I watch her through my eyelashes as I place little kisses on the inside of her thigh, then take a last look at the clock on her bedside table.
She comes in less than fifteen.
Chapter 6
Shelby
I made a special run to the grocery store this morning, before Derrick even woke up, and dinner’s been marinating in the fridge for a good nine hours now.
Derrick mentioned last night that he’s been craving fried chicken, so I’m making my grandmother’s recipe, soaked in buttermilk, doubled coated, and fried in her fifty-year old cast iron dutch oven. I have a side of collard greens, fresh mashed potatoes, gravy, sun brewed sweet tea fresh from my new porch, and apple pie, hot from the oven.
He may be loud and all up in my space, but it’s nice to have another mouth to feed. And boy can he eat. I’m not sure where he puts it all. Me, well, you can see from the wobble in my hips where it all goes on me.
Derrick finished the front porch a few days ago and decided to stick to the outside of the house for his Mr. Fix-it list, since I’m still working during the day. He’s been outside for the last few hours, taking the power washer to my house’s siding, and I was hoping to have food ready before he came in for the night.
Alas, he smacked my ass five minutes ago before heading into the shower to wash off the day’s sweat. I guess he gets to help me cook instead. Or watch, like he has every other night this week. When I told him that he should cook me dinner the other night, he asked me where the local delivery joint was.
Typical man.
In the week he’s been here, his skin has already taken on a deeper tone from all his time outside, and he’s made a run to a men’s department store to buy a cheap pair of steel toed boots. As you can imagine, he didn’t have a lot of clothes packed into that rolling suitcase of his, but he says he doesn’t need to buy any clothes and I’ve taken his word for it.
He spends most of his time shirtless anyway.
Youtube is blasting from the big screen in the living room, and I dance little steps in my kitchen to the country song that blares through my surround sound.
“Country, really?” comes from behind me, and I jump in place, dropping my paper bag of seasoning to the counter and bringing my hands to my chest. The music is loud, and we almost have to yell to be heard over top of it. I suppose it’s not his fault I didn’t hear him sneak up on me.
“You asshole,” I gasp, and he grins in response. I wait until my heartbeat get back under control before I answer him. “Yes, country. I live in the South! If you were here during any regular time, I’d take you line dancing. It’s one of the few things I enjoy doing in the company of others.”
He’s wearing a pair of blue joggers, tight enough that I can see the outline of his thighs, and his dick against the front. His hair is slicked back but messy. He probably combed it, then ran his fingers through it, messing it all up again.