Waiting Pays Off

Jill Taylor finally cut the bull. She told herself she’d waited long enough, so she grabbed Celtic Iron by the waistband and yanked him down onto the couch like she’d just decided to try that one dusty bottle in the back of the liquor cabinet. Celtic barely caught his breath before her fingers had his belt loose and his cock already half-hard in her palm. She wasted exactly three seconds admiring it—just long enough for him to smirk and her to roll her eyes—then she wrapped her lips around the head, sucked once, and sank down until her nose brushed the neat patch of dark hair at the base. Her tongue flattened along the underside, licking fat stripes in slow slides up and down while her lips dragged tight and wet around the shaft. Every time she pulled up she left a shiny thread of spit that she smeared around his cockhead with her tongue, smirking up at him with a little wink as if to say, Hope you’ve got nowhere to be. One hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t reach; the other cupped and rolled his balls in time with the steady, slick bob of her head. Celtic groaned something about patience being a virtue and she hummed around the next deep swallow, the vibration buzzing straight through him and making his hips twitch. Spit glistened at the corner of her mouth, and she never bothered wiping it away—why bother when her chin was already shiny and she still had plans? She drew back so she could tongue the sensitive underside just beneath the head, quick flickering licks, then opened wide again and took him to the root like she intended to collect a toll for months of built-up tension. The wet, rhythmic schluck of her mouth kept time with the twitch of his thighs and the low, helpless curses coming from above her.