Chapter Text
Cecilia Immergreen tells herself she’s a composed person.
It’s a lie, of course, but she tells herself this every morning when she wakes up and finds Gigi sprawled half on top of her, one bare leg hiked over Cecilia’s thigh and those goddamn spats riding up so tight they’re practically wedged in . Every morning, she closes her eyes, exhales slowly, and reminds herself that she is a strong, patient woman. She can handle a little temptation. A lot of temptation. The sheer physical manifestation of temptation cohabitating in her apartment, calling her “Cece” in a sleepy voice and brushing her teeth with a mouthful of foam while bent over the sink in those microscopic shorts—
They’re not even shorts. They’re… fabric suggestions.
Cecilia has no idea where Gigi even gets them. They’re always black, always sprayed-on tight, always cut high enough that the curve of her ass peeks out from underneath. And always, always worn without underwear. She knows this because she’s had the misfortune (read: pleasure) of seeing Gigi climb onto the kitchen counter one too many times, those legs of hers swinging back and forth, and nothing between her and that shiny, glistening little patch of nylon but air .
Cecilia does not handle this well.
She's a pervert. She’s accepted that now. Quietly. Shamefully. Masturbating in the shower with a wet washcloth pressed over her face while imagining Gigi moaning against the laundry hamper, whimpering as Cecilia rubs her through those horrible, holy, tight, wet things. The kind of daydreams that start with guilt and end in utter ruin.
And Gigi? Gigi is oblivious. A menace. A chaos demon. She pads around the apartment barefoot, always with her thighs on full display, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, sometimes stretching in the living room while watching cartoons, her ass practically winking at Cecilia with every bend.
"These are comfy," she chirped one afternoon, flopping down onto the couch. “I’d wear them every day if I could.”
You already do, Cecilia thought numbly, eyes glued to the way the waistband dipped right under Gigi’s stomach. There was a hint of dark fuzz beneath—she hadn’t shaved in a few days, and Cecilia wanted to mouth at it, tug the waistband down and press her nose right into that faint heat.
The worst part— the worst part —is laundry day.
Because Gigi doesn’t do her own laundry. No, she says she does, but she always forgets, always leaves things in the hamper, always sweetly begs Cecilia with a “Could you throw mine in too? Please? You’re already doing yours…”
Cecilia grits her teeth and nods. And then she’s alone. In the bathroom. With a pile of scent-soaked, sweat-slick clothes that are soaked in Gigi.
And the spats. God help her, the spats.
She always finds at least two pairs tangled up in the rest of Gigi’s clothes, still warm from the hamper, still carrying that faint musk of her, the sweetness of her detergent, the unmistakable scent of sweat, skin, and wet. Cecilia doesn’t mean to sniff them. She doesn’t plan to. But she’ll unfold them carefully, fingers brushing along the inseam, and she’ll notice the faint imprint of Gigi’s folds in the fabric. A little stain. The shape of her.
And Cecilia—desperate, trembling Cecilia—brings them to her face.
The first time she did it, she nearly came just from the scent. Just from knowing that the heat against her nose was where Gigi had been sitting, rubbing, walking around without a care in the world. She buried her mouth in the gusset and groaned, hips twitching, teeth gritted. She swore she’d never do it again.
She lied.
Now, it’s routine.
A ritual.
A secret.
She kneels beside the hamper, one hand gripping the fabric, the other already pushing down the front of her pants. She nuzzles and mouths at the fabric like she’s starving, licking the inside with long, obscene strokes, whispering “fuck, fuck, fuck,” into the weave as she fucks her fingers in slow and steady. She imagines Gigi bent over the arm of the couch, wearing nothing but those things, moaning helplessly while Cecilia grinds her mouth into that damp strip, tongue-fucking through the nylon and feeling the heat build against her face.
And every time she finishes, she folds the spats up perfectly. Gently. Respectfully. She washes them last so she can stare at them a little longer.
She doesn’t know that Gigi knows.
She doesn’t know that Gigi, standing in the doorway last week, watched her press the spats to her mouth and moan into them, thighs shaking. That Gigi had to bite her knuckle to keep from making a sound. That Gigi has been putting them in the hamper on purpose, freshly worn, sometimes without even trying to wash herself off first.
Cecilia Immergreen is not okay.
She tells herself she is, of course. She tells herself she’s fine while sipping bitter tea in the kitchen and staring at the microwave with a blank expression. She tells herself she’s normal, sane, composed, as she wipes down the counter for the fifth time, eyes flickering up every time Gigi pads by on bare feet and squeaky thighs.
But Cecilia is not fine.
Cecilia is losing her mind.
Because Gigi’s spats are a war crime. And Gigi herself? She’s the general. That tiny, bratty, five-foot-tall roommate who flops around their apartment like a sleepy cat in heat, all lazy stretches and puppy yawns, wearing nothing but a hoodie and those spats.
No underwear. No protection. No decency.
And Cecilia—Cecilia has been thinking about wearing sunglasses indoors.
It’s gotten that bad.
Not because she wants to look cool. No. Not because she’s hiding tears of sexual frustration (though that’s a valid secondary reason). But because she needs to stare, goddammit. She needs to look. To drink in the full outline of that perfect, perfect cunt riding high and tight in black nylon like it's sculpted for her. She wants to track every line. Every bump. Every dip and ridge and soft little press of flesh that bunches where Gigi sits.
Gigi walks into the room and Cecilia short-circuits. Her brain blanks like a computer on low battery. All she sees is that perfect seam stretching between Gigi’s thighs. The smooth line of her lips visible through the second-skin fabric. The slight glisten if the light hits her just right—damp from heat, from sweat, from god knows what.
And Cecilia wants to press her face to it. To nuzzle. To lick, slowly, carefully, reverently, like she’s praying. Like if she prays hard enough into the soaked crotch of those spats, Gigi will finally snap and sit on her face.
Sometimes, Gigi leans on the counter. Just leans. Innocently. Chatting about whatever stupid little cartoon she watched the night before, sipping juice straight from the carton, and Cecilia’s whole body locks up because the fabric rides in. It sinks in just enough to outline everything.
The cleft. The softness. The way it shifts when she shifts. The fact that if Cecilia just reached out and cupped her—just once—she’d feel every line of her pussy pressed up against the fabric, hot and squishy and begging to be touched.
She stares.
She can't help it.
And then Gigi catches her. Always.
She catches her and says nothing. Just tilts her head and smiles like she doesn’t know Cecilia’s entire soul is combusting inside her skin.
Once— just once —Gigi caught her mid-stare and arched her back, one foot resting on the bottom rung of the barstool. Cecilia nearly dropped her tea. It clattered onto the counter, splashing everywhere, her hands trembling as she turned sharply away and muttered, “ Jesus fucking Christ— ”
And Gigi had the audacity to giggle. Soft. Sweet. Like she hadn’t just destroyed the last shreds of Cecilia’s sanity.
She’s not doing it on purpose, Cecilia tells herself. There’s no way. No way Gigi knows how tight those spats are. No way she understands how her cunt is etched into Cecilia’s memory. How Cecilia will be at work or the grocery store or practicing violin and suddenly seize up with the full-body memory of that one time Gigi bent over in front of her, giving her a perfect, sinful silhouette of her folds hugged by black synthetic thread.
Cecilia bites her knuckle and stares at her ceiling at night thinking about it.
And she’s absolutely going to buy those sunglasses.
Because then she can stare without shame. Stare while pretending she’s just zoning out. She can tip them down the bridge of her nose and look like some insufferable cool girl instead of what she really is: a sexually starved, weak-willed, deliriously obsessed roommate with a problem so intense it borders on religious fervor.
Sometimes, she imagines leaning in when Gigi’s sitting on the couch. Just leaning close and whispering in her ear, “You ever get off with these still on?” and watching her squirm. Watching her giggle nervously and say something bratty like, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” because yes. Cecilia would like to know. Cecilia wants to see it. Wants to watch her spread her legs, let those spats stretch even tighter over her, and grind herself to orgasm without ever peeling them off.
Cecilia wants to mouth at her through them. Tongue every ridge and crease. Suck through the fabric until Gigi’s sobbing into a pillow and pulling Cecilia’s hair, whining, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”
But instead, she drinks her tea. She glares at the microwave. She contemplates her sins.
It starts, as these things often do, with a whine.
Gigi Murin is so achy.
She’s been thinking about Cecilia’s mouth all day. The way her lips part. The way her eyes half-lid when she’s tired, annoyed, or—god help her—horny. Gigi sees it. She sees it every time she stretches across the table, every time she throws a leg over the couch arm and feels her spats ride up. Cecilia looks away, jaw clenched, lips twitching like she wants to snarl or moan and hasn’t decided which.
It's been getting worse lately.
Not that Gigi minds.
She’s an attention sponge. She lives for it. Especially Cecilia’s attention. The way Cecilia watches her like she’s a puzzle to solve. A threat to assess. A meal to devour.
And when she catches her—when their eyes lock after an extra bold bend or a leggy sprawl—Cecilia’s nostrils flare. Her jaw ticks. She glares like she’s pissed to be seen, like it’s Gigi’s fault for walking around in tight spats and nothing underneath.
She doesn’t mean to be a menace. Not always. But right now? Tonight?
She is very much going to be a menace.
Because she’s already half hard. Not in a sexy, languid, leisurely way. In the urgent way. In the ‘I’ve been wet since Cecilia said “pass the salt” in that voice’ kind of way. She’s stretched out in bed, oversized hoodie pooled around her waist, a crinkled bag of popcorn to her left, and she can’t stop squirming.
Her spats are doing nothing to help.
They’re a little tighter today. She'd pulled them out of the clean basket earlier and noticed they were slightly damp, maybe from being folded too long. But they clung like a second skin. Like a seal. Like a curse.
Every shift drags the seam along her clit. Every time she adjusts, it’s like her pussy’s being kissed by the universe.
She knows she should take them off. Knows she should clean up, get under the covers, do something else. But instead, her hips grind into the mattress, slow and tentative at first. A little experiment.
She gasps.
Then does it again.
And again.
And soon, she’s grinding like she’s possessed—chasing it, desperate, rutting against her blanket and moaning into her own shoulder. Hiding her face in the fabric like she’s afraid someone will hear.
The spats are soaked.
Not a little damp. Not a cute glisten.
Soaked.
The seam is embedded in her now. Slick and warm and perfectly positioned. Every motion makes the pressure worse, sharper, more unbearable, until she’s grinding in tight, shallow thrusts and whispering please please please to no one in particular. Her whole body is tight, taut, trembling with it. The friction is almost too much, almost not enough, and she’s so close—
“C-Cecilia,” she whines, low and broken, and her toes curl.
The orgasm hits like a car crash. Sudden. Breathless. Her legs lock and twitch as she cries out softly, her hand fisting the sheet, her hips still jerking forward even as the pleasure spikes and lingers and floods her. The warm, liquid rush of it has her sobbing, just a little. And when she finally collapses, hoodie stuck to her chest with sweat and thighs still trembling from the effort, she stares at the ceiling and wheezes.
Oh god.
That was—
She presses a hand to her thigh. Then to the spats. They’re wet.
Gross-wet.
Soaked-wet.
Sticky and clinging and very obviously used.
Her first instinct is shame. Her second is the familiar little itch of guilt.
She always washes them when she gets off like this. Always tosses them in the sink with soap and hot water, always leaves them to dry before pretending they just “ended up” in the hamper like that. She’s careful. Thoughtful. She wouldn’t do that to Cecilia.
Except…
Her face goes warm.
She thinks about how Cecilia holds the spats when she thinks no one is watching. The way she smooths the fabric out between her fingers, reverent and hungry. The way she brings them to her face like they’re precious, like they’re sacred.
The way she moans into them. Bites the seam. Licks them.
Gigi saw it. She knows. She knows Cecilia mouths at the shape of her pussy, desperate and shameless, nose buried deep in the damp spot like she wants to live there.
The idea makes her throb all over again.
So maybe…
Just this once…
She presses her palm to the wet patch. Rubs a little circle into it. Smiles when her fingertips come away slick.
Then she gets up.
She tiptoes barefoot to the bathroom, hoodie falling just enough to tease the curve of her ass. The light buzzes overhead. The washer is quiet, empty.
She walks past it.
She stands in front of the hamper.
Looks down at the ruined, soaked spats in her hands.
And then, slowly, very deliberately, she folds them in half and tucks them into the laundry pile—top of the stack, right where Cecilia will see them. Still warm. Still sticky.
Still soaked with her orgasm.
She closes the lid with a soft click.
Bites her lip.
And whispers to herself, a little breathless, a little wicked:
“Only this one time.”
Cecilia doesn’t mean to go through the hamper that night.
She’s already tired. Her head hurts. There’s a dull throb behind her eyes and a long stretch of overtime on her schedule, and she just wants to wash everything and maybe— maybe —crawl into bed and sleep for six hours without dreaming about Gigi whimpering under her.
But when she lifts the lid of the laundry hamper, her brain just…
switches off.
Because there they are.
Right on top.
Not hidden. Not folded. Not faintly damp or questionably worn like usual.
These spats are wet.
The entire crotch is smeared with a slick, glistening mess, soaked through and glinting faintly in the low bathroom light. The fabric is shiny. Tacky. Still warm, maybe. Still fresh. The seam is ruined —twisted and dragged in a way that suggests grinding, humping, the frantic motion of Gigi fucking herself stupid against her own bed or a pillow or—
Cecilia’s knees buckle.
She makes a sound—sharp, low, not even human. A breathless fuck under her breath as her vision goes white at the edges.
Her cock is rock hard in seconds. Aching, throbbing, pressing tight and painful against her waistband. It makes her hiss, clutch the edge of the hamper like it can ground her.
But it doesn’t.
Nothing can.
Because all she sees— all she knows —is the soft, shiny spot of fabric that’s been fucked. That’s filthy with it. That smells like sweat and Gigi and slick. That looks like a little pussy outline drawn in sugar and sin and absolutely no self-restraint.
She picks them up.
Slowly. Carefully. Like they might dissolve in her hands if she moves too fast.
Her fingers tremble. She spreads the fabric just enough to see the way it’s creased, how the line of Gigi’s cunt is etched into the gusset. She can imagine it— perfectly. The little shudders, the panting, the slick squelch of it as Gigi humped these into filth. The way her pussy must’ve kissed the fabric, lips parting around the seam, drooling against the nylon until it clung just like this.
Cecilia is gone.
There’s no thought left. No guilt. No control.
Only instinct.
Only taste. Suck. Lick.
She drags the spats to her face and inhales. Hard. Deep. Her eyes flutter back and her whole body seizes like someone plugged her directly into a socket.
They smell like her. Like Gigi’s need, her heat, her moans caught in fabric. Like something offered.
And Cecilia—on her knees now, one hand already yanking her waistband down, her cock slapping hot and wet against her belly— accepts.
She licks the seam.
Drags her tongue flat and heavy along the slick, sticky gusset and groans. The taste is electric. Salty. Sweet. Sharp. Real. Her mouth waters. She grips the sides of the fabric and sucks, lips closing around the mess and pulling it in, desperate to get everything. Every drop.
Her hips jerk. Her cock twitches violently, leaking all over her hand as she starts to stroke with quick, clumsy pulls. It’s not enough. It’s too much. It’s everything she’s ever wanted and never dared to let herself have.
She slurps at the seam like it’s her job, moaning into it, rutting into her own palm with her head bowed and mouth stuffed full of her roommate’s orgasm. Her tongue flicks over the crease, imagining the way Gigi must’ve rocked against it, riding it for all she was worth, thighs shaking and voice breaking.
Cecilia wants to fuck her in these.
She wants to press Gigi to the wall, shove her hands down those shorts, and fuck her just like this, soaked and ruined and whining, “It’s too much, I can’t, I already came—” while Cecilia licks the taste of her out of every thread.
“Fuck,” she gasps, teeth grazing the seam now, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
She’s drooling. It’s dripping down her chin, mixing with Gigi’s mess, making it worse.
Her strokes are faster now. Desperate. Sharp. She’s panting through her nose, hips jerking wildly, everything in her unraveling.
She’s going to come.
She knows she is, and she doesn’t care. She leans forward, braces herself on her forearm, and bites down on the crotch of the spats, snarling into them like an animal while her cock erupts. The orgasm hits her like a freight train, a blinding, white-hot shock that shoots through her spine and shudders out in violent, full-body tremors.
She spills all over her own thigh, thick and messy and ruinous. Her hand doesn’t stop. Neither does her mouth.
She’s still licking when the aftershocks hit. Still moaning. Still drooling on the fabric like it’s holy.
She finally pulls back—just barely—long enough to catch her breath. She looks down at the spats, at the mess she’s made.
Her lips twitch.
She folds them again.
Neatly. Tenderly.
And this time?
She doesn’t put them in the wash.
Cecilia stares at them.
They're on her pillow. Not hidden. Not tucked away in shame like they should be.
No. They're laid out.
Folded once, neatly, as if that makes it less depraved. As if her shaking hands and the sweat beading at the back of her neck are somehow dignified when the soaked crotch of Gigi’s spats is just sitting there. Mocking her. Daring her.
She’s not proud of it.
God, she’s not proud of it.
But she is aching. Her cock is hard and red and twitching in her boxers, leaking at just the memory of last night. Of mouthing at the sticky seam until her lips went numb. Of biting down on the gusset like it would stop her from sobbing into the fabric when she came.
They’re still damp.
Not with her. With Gigi.
And Cecilia—saintly, cold, impossible Cecilia— breaks.
She’s on her knees again, mattress dipping under her weight, chest heaving as she picks them up with trembling fingers. They’re a little crumpled now. There’s a small smear where her tongue dragged last night. It’s obscene. It’s foul.
It’s perfect.
She pushes her pants down. Her cock bobs out, already soaked at the tip, flushed angry red. She wraps the spats around it like a sleeve, folds the warm, slippery fabric just right, pressing the seam directly against the underside of her shaft.
The second it touches her, she groans.
It’s not like her hand. Not like anything else. It’s soft, damp, filthy —and textured, with the faintest impression of Gigi’s folds pressed into it. She strokes, slow at first, teeth gritted, sweat beading on her upper lip.
It’s too much. It’s perfect.
She imagines Gigi on top of her, riding her in those spats, pussy leaking through the fabric, dragging against her cock with every bounce. Cecilia would suck the seam between her teeth. Would beg. Would say things she’s never said out loud before.
“F-fuck, Gigi,” she moans, hips twitching, dragging the slick fabric up and down her shaft. “You filthy fucking—”
There’s a knock at her door.
Then it opens.
And there’s Gigi.
Barefoot. Hoodie-draped. Standing in the doorway with a half-full mug and a confused look on her face.
“Hey, have you seen my—”
Her eyes drop.
Land on the spats.
Wrapped around Cecilia’s cock.
Stained. Shiny. Sticky.
Cecilia explodes.
There’s no stopping it—no hiding, no salvaging anything. Her body takes over. Her cock jerks and spurts, thick and hot and shameful, right into the fabric as Gigi stares.
She chokes on her own moan, biting down hard on her lip, eyes wide and glassy as the orgasm hits like a goddamn nuclear blast. She strokes through it on autopilot, desperate and shaking, grunting as each pulse of cum soaks deeper into the ruined crotch of her roommate’s shorts.
The moment stretches, obscene and frozen.
Gigi doesn’t move.
Neither does Cecilia.
The only sound is her breath—ragged, broken, wrecked —and the slow, wet squelch as her cock drags through the mess she’s made.
She finally stops.
She can’t look at her.
Can’t speak.
Can’t move.
Gigi, still in the doorway, very slowly takes a sip of her tea. Then, calmly, quietly, in the most neutral voice Cecilia’s ever heard her use, she says:
“…So that’s where they went.”
Cecilia wants to die.
She wants to crawl under the bed and dissolve into dust.
But instead, she sits there. Frozen. Dick out. Spats in hand. Eyes wide and haunted.
Gigi steps inside.
Closes the door.
Sets her tea down on the dresser.
And then, with a soft little grin that does nothing to hide how red her ears have gone, she murmurs:
“...Are you gonna clean those? Or should I ride your face while you make it worse?”
Cecilia blinks.
Her mind—already reeling, already wrecked from the orgasm still twitching through her limbs—short-circuits entirely. Static. Her lips part, her throat clicks, but no words come out. Her fingers are still clutched around the now ruined spats, hot with cum and slick and the scent of both of them mingling into something filthy and undeniable.
Gigi is standing at the foot of the bed.
Smiling.
Sheepish. Sweet. Her lashes are low, her cheeks are pink, and she’s shifting her weight from foot to foot in a way that’s almost shy—but not innocent. Not anymore. Not when Cecilia’s whole world is crashing down around her in high-definition humiliation and arousal, and Gigi—
“ You knew, ” Cecilia mumbles hoarsely. Her voice is wrecked. Hollow. Like she’s just stumbled off a battlefield with nothing but smoke in her lungs.
“Mmhmm,” Gigi hums.
She looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie, then glances back up at Cecilia through her lashes. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”
Cecilia wants to sink into the mattress and die.
Instead, she stares up at Gigi, jaw slack, chest rising and falling fast enough to make her ache again. Her cock is still out, twitching in her lap, and Gigi—goddamn her—lets her eyes linger there. Bold. Curious. Wicked.
Then she steps closer.
One foot on the bed frame. One knee slipping onto the edge of the mattress. She crawls forward, straddling Cecilia’s lap, hands planted on either side of her shoulders.
Her thighs are bare.
And she’s not wearing any spats.
Just skin.
Just heat.
Just her.
She leans in, presses her nose against Cecilia’s cheek, and nuzzles. It’s the softest little motion in the world. It breaks Cecilia into pieces.
“Question still stands,” Gigi whispers, voice syrupy, trembling with nerves and mischief. “Can I ride your face?”
Cecilia swallows hard.
Her mouth moves. Her body stays frozen.
She doesn’t know if she’s dreaming. Doesn’t know if this is some post-nut hallucination, a fever fantasy her brain constructed in the final moments of lucidity. But then Gigi licks her cheek. A quick little swipe. Puppy-like. Testing.
And Cecilia snaps.
She grabs Gigi by the waist, firm and urgent, and flips them both in a fluid motion, pinning Gigi to the bed. The spats are flung aside, forgotten. Gigi squeaks, breathless, and blinks up at her with a startled, delighted gasp.
“Sit,” Cecilia growls, eyes burning, voice hoarse and ruined. “Right now. Sit on my face.”
Gigi’s lips part. Her pupils blow wide. Her hands fumble for Cecilia’s shoulders, clutching tight.
“You—y-you’re serious?” she whispers, voice going high and wobbly.
Cecilia nods, slow and intense. Her hands slide down, gripping Gigi’s thighs, spreading them open.
“I’m not asking again.”
Gigi whimpers.
And then she obeys.
Gigi lowers herself slowly.
Shaking, blushing, half-laughing from nerves—until she feels Cecilia’s grip tighten. Until she feels the heat of her mouth under her, open and panting like something wild.
Then she moans.
Because it’s immediate.
Cecilia groans like she’s been starved and finally— finally —given permission to eat.
Gigi is wet. Not just damp. Not just slick.
Dripping.
Cecilia’s breath catches as Gigi settles fully against her face, thighs trembling, cunt parting open against her mouth in a gush of sticky heat. She tastes it immediately. Her tongue flicks out, slow and reverent, and Gigi shudders above her.
It’s obscene.
Hot and messy and sweet, like nectar dripped from something sacred, thick and salty at the same time. A kind of ambrosia —liquid and alive, perfect in every goddamn way.
Cecilia groans again. Louder. Her mouth seals against Gigi’s cunt like it belongs there.
Because it does.
She licks a broad, slow stripe from the base to her clit, savoring the taste with a trembling moan. Her hands are firm on Gigi’s thighs, spreading them wider, keeping her open. Every motion of her tongue makes Gigi gasp, makes her hips jerk, makes her whine.
And she’s soaked. Gigi is soaked.
It’s everywhere—on Cecilia’s chin, her cheeks, her neck. Every lap brings more slick, more honeyed mess, more of that perfect taste Cecilia swears she’s dreamed about every goddamn night since Gigi moved in.
She noses into her. Breathes her in. Tongue dipping low, dragging against the silky, quivering folds, and then pressing up into her, wet and needy. Gigi cries out—loud, startled, overwhelmed. Her hands fly to Cecilia’s hair, clutching at her like she’ll float away if she doesn’t anchor herself.
Cecilia’s cock is leaking against her own stomach, untouched. She doesn’t need to stroke it. She doesn’t care. She could die between these thighs and be happy.
Gigi’s thighs twitch. Her breath stutters. Her hips grind down on instinct, chasing the rhythm, chasing more.
“C-Cecilia,” she whimpers. “F-fuck, your mouth— ”
Cecilia growls into her, tongue flattening and dragging up hard, circling the clit and sucking it into her mouth with a hungry, sloppy kiss.
Gigi screams.
She shakes. She grinds. She’s whimpering Cecilia’s name over and over, legs trembling, cunt gushing against Cecilia’s face with every pass of her tongue.
And Cecilia just keeps licking.
Like she’ll never stop. Like she can’t.
Because this is everything. The taste. The heat. The little gasping cries Gigi makes when her hips stutter and she tries to run—but there’s nowhere to go.
Only Cecilia.
Only that mouth.
Only the wet, messy sounds of devotion between her legs.
And the low, guttural groans of a woman who’s wanted this for so, so long.