I took him to the back of my throat and Jayden cursed loudly.
His hand tightened in my hair. His hips stuttered. I hollowed my cheeks and looked up at him while I did it, because I had spent years pretending I did not want this exact view: my cousin wrecked, jeans open, the c**k I had measured every scene against finally heavy on my tongue. He was shaking. He was still trying to be decent and failing in wet, helpless thrusts that made spit run down my chin and onto his father’s carpet.
“Joana—f**k—get up.”
I pulled off slow, a string of spit connecting my mouth to him. He looked ruined. I felt ruined. The living room was quiet except for our breathing and the faint tick of a clock that did not care what we were doing.
“Make me.”
He hauled me up and kissed me like a fight he had alread
