A Little Bit of Your Taste in My Mouth




Fact is, she loves to touch him. Remy is a mess of textures. The whiskers covering his cheeks and jaw prickle her chest, just above her breasts. His hair is just the slightest bit tacky from whatever product he uses to make it seem like he doesn't use product at all. His sweater is cashmere, soft, silky, bunching in her fists like a tiny stuffed toy until he shrugs it off his shoulders. He pops his head up and grins at her. Just grins and Rogue doesn't know if her heart's pounding because she's crazy about him, or he's crazy about her or he's rubbing his knee against her in just the right place. Jeans are the best texture ever. She presses down hard. She bites her lower lip and closes her eyes. She has a death-grip on him, her nails carving into the his biceps. He's sinewy; she'd read the definition somewhere and Remy pretty much is the poster boy for it.

She lifts her legs around his waist. The stockings make them smoother than they really are. She likes to dress up for him. Because of the time-limit on the suppression collar, a lot of their foreplay didn't involve actual contact. Remy loves to buy her sexy lingerie. She loves the look on his face and the tent in his pants when he sees her wearing them. She likes it when he talks. Two hours ago, they were both fully clothed, her on his lap, her skirt hiked up to her thighs with his latex-gloved hand under her panties, his fingers lazily sliding in and around her vaj while he read erotica out loud. Now he humped over her, panting, devil's eyes burning.

"Do you like this?" he asks, rolling her clit and one of her nipples at the same time.

And Rogue can't answer, of course, she can't, because she's too busying moaning and arching up against him. She's not so far gone that she misses the triumph flashing through his face.

He asks that a lot. "Do you like this?" "Do you want that?"

Of course she's happy. Her boyfriend is older, rich, sex on wheels and adores her. He does things all the other girls say they want their boyfriend to do for them. It's just that sometimes, he gets this... look. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was casing her. Remy was obsessive about casing his jobs; before he took one on, he made sure to know every little detail about the location, the mark, every person that had anything to do with the mark, the mark's history. It made him a great thief. And if that obsessiveness ran over to his love-making, then all the better for her, right?

"Peaches, what're you thinking on?"

Rogue's attention snaps back to the present. "Likely, I'm thinking you're wasting a lot of time just rubbing up and down on me like that. Timer's ticking, sugar."

He grins. Just grins and maybe it was the light but was he relieved as well? But the time for analysis is over because Remy slides down, ducks between her legs and proceeds to work magic with his mouth. And, God, OH GOD, bless him being a detail-man 'cause Rogue had never had oral sex before Remy but she's pretty sure he's the best in the world at it 'cause her orgasms go all the way to her head and continue on and on and she screams herself hoarse, losing control of every muscle in her body.

Despite that, when he looms over her again, Rogue has enough presence of of mind to know, just know that's pure satisfaction on his face. He kisses her; he's wiped his mouth off so no matter how much she licks and sucks and nibbles, there isn't a taste of her left. It's all him. Remy's whiskers burn her cheeks. His teeth redden her lips. His tongue laves her mouth and down her neck. She doesn't have the strength left to lock her legs around him. He hitches her hips up higher on his thighs, clamps his hands around her butt and thrusts and thrusts and thrusts and damn him, he's making her lose control first.

Remy always makes sure to pull her into a cuddle before he falls asleep. His arm lies heavy around her. Rogue can't breathe.

previous chapter