The Quarterback's Roommate
Right when my thighs started trembling, he pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny.
I whined—high, desperate.
“Not yet,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, voice wrecked. “Want you shaking first.”
He turned me around—chest to tile, ass presented. His big hands spread me open, thumbs holding me wide. Then his tongue—hot, flat, dragging a slow, filthy stripe from my balls all the way up to my hole.
I moaned loud enough that it echoed off the walls.
He didn’t stop. He tongued me open with relentless patience—circling, pressing inside, sucking gently, then deeper, wetter, water and spit mixing until everything was slick and dripping down my thighs. My palms slipped on the ti