We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,3

upstairs with Sienna — that heartbroken awareness, that blindsided shock — I’ll never be able to stay hard.

Sienna is lapping at my cock like it’s an ice cream cone on the hottest day of summer.

“You like that, don’t you?”

Her fake nails scrape over sensitive skin, and I flinch in what I’m sure she thinks is pleasure.

“I’m gonna make you cum so hard you’ll see heaven…”

Would it be impolite to put in my headphones, like I do at the dentist when I don’t want to hear them drilling into my skull?

Jaw clenched, I stare up at the ceiling. My hands fist in the sheets as she picks up her pace. She pulls me all the way into her mouth, until I’m butting against the back of her throat.

Christ.

It does feels good, don’t get me wrong. Not great, but… good. From the way the guys always talk about head in the locker room, you’d think I’d be levitating off the bed in sheer ecstasy by now. Hell, maybe I should be. Sienna is hot, and she definitely knows what she’s doing. But whatever pleasure she’s managing to stir up is at war with the guilt and pain and regret that’s sitting like an anvil on my chest.

Focus, fuckhead, I scold myself. Otherwise this is going to take forever.

I grunt as her mouth moves faster. Its hard to describe the sensation. Warm, wet. A bit sloppier than I thought it would be. Like fucking a peach that won’t stop moaning theatrically every time you dip in.

“Are you close?” she gasps, pulling back with a slurping sound. She’s panting a little.

Am I close?

Not nearly.

“Yeah,” I lie, barely recognizing my own voice. “I’m close.”

I force myself to look down at her as she resumes. Her eyes are brown. They’d be pretty if they weren’t rimmed with so much makeup. Every time she blinks those long false eyelashes, I think of caterpillars crawling across her face — which isn’t helping my performance any.

Could I be any more of an asshole?

This girl is sucking me off with the enthusiasm of a Dyson, and all I can think about is how much longer it’s going to take until I can get out of this room, away from her. Away from myself. Away from this whole fucking night.

By then, the damage will be done. I’ll have accomplished my mission of pushing away the only person I’ve ever even come close to—

No.

I fortify the metal barricade around my brain with fresh bolts and iron shackles, so the thoughts can’t creep in. So she can’t creep in. I force my mind to blank, focusing only on sensation.

Sienna’s mouth.

My cock.

But it’s not working. Five more minutes tick by, and I still can’t seem to finish. For all her faux enthusiasm, Sienna knows it too. Her lips smack together with a wet pop! as the suction releases. She sits up between my thighs. My still-hard dick points up at her, a soldier at attention, awaiting his orders.

“This isn’t working,” Sienna pouts, frustration plain in her voice. I can see why. She’s probably never had to put in this much effort for something as simple as a BJ. She’s so hot, most guys are ready to blow their load the first second her lips close over their tip.

Teenage virgins aren’t exactly known for their stamina.

Brows furrowed, she contemplates me like I’ve got some kind of anatomical issue. I can almost hear the thoughts turning over in her mind.

Whiskey dick?

Mommy issues?

Secretly gay?

Sienna prides herself on being the hottest piece of ass at Exeter Academy. I know that sounds derogatory, but it’s a title she gave herself. She takes abundant pride in her so-called “body count” of boys whose v-cards she’s collected, often bragging that she’s got nearly a full deck.

Her fingernail talons dig into my skin as she crawls up my body, straddling me. With our faces inches apart, I notice her lips are swollen and red from her efforts. She leans in to brush them against my ear, a breathy whisper.

“Why don’t you just fuck me instead?”

Her hair rubs against my cheek — straw-like, reeking of artificial strawberries — and I try not to grimace. At this point, I want to screw her about as much as I want to slam my own dick in the nearest doorway, but I don’t protest as she wriggles into a better position.

She stares into my eyes as she slowly hikes her stretchy orange skirt up around her midsection. She isn’t wearing underwear, which normally would be an