A little lewd epilogue

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This isn’t the first time you’ve been between her thighs, intoxicated by the smell of her and the warm press of her legs draped over your shoulders. Yet every time you do this, it still feels like you’re dreaming.

You dig your fingertips into her supple ass as you swirl your tongue around her clit the way you know she likes. She’s gained some much-needed weight since she first started crashing your pad in search of meals. You’re heady with the feel of it under your hands and squeezing around your head.

This is supposed to be your “punishment” for accidentally calling her ‘Cara’ in the throes of pleasure earlier. She’s still weirdly sensitive about her real name, like she thinks she’s not important enough to be an individual instead of ‘Grunt’.

She’d pulled away from you—right when you were about to come, damn it—and insisted that you needed to make it up to her.

So you are.

She twists and thrashes on the mattress—dramatic and demanding as usual as you lap at her feverishly. She practically coos out your name, voice dripping honey, and you full-body shiver. You work your tongue harder to earn more of those sounds from her.

“Fuck, yesss…” she hisses out, throwing her head back. You can tell from the way her thighs tighten around you that she’s close. You’re almost over the edge yourself just from listening to her.

You press your tongue as deep into her as it can go, the bridge of your nose buried in pink hair (you’d laughed the first time you saw it, but you had to admire the dedication to her dye job). You take care to also nudge that sensitive little nub just right, and she finally arches her back and gasps out her climax.

She doesn’t even wind down or give you a chance to pull away before she’s drumming on your back impatiently with her heel.

“Yo,” she starts, hoarse and breathless. You can hear the wicked grin in her voice. “Let’s go do it in the kitchen. Then we’re makin' malasada.”