I can't get enough of you. Though you probably know that, backed against the counter, leggings down just enough so I can bury my face in your snatch. Fingers digging into your hips, slurping sounds echoing through the room as my tongue licks the length of your slit, trying to split your lips to get more of your juices. Your fingers in my hair, the effort to try to pull me away having morphed into pulling me to you, your hips grinding to encourage my ravenous appetite as I plunder your depths.

This happens a lot. You encourage it, knowing my weaknesses, the lust for eating you out that cracks through my control more than I should. When my gaze darts to your hips, hiding under a dancing skirt or contouring fabric, pushing my sordid desires to the surface.

You tease, sometimes overtly and sometimes less obviously. I see the hint of a smirk at your gaze, the way your hips swing when you pass by or bend over the counter to present yourself to me. Bringing out that need, my control being tested, aching for the taste of you.

You might have been surprised the first time it happened, back on the couch, skirt up, growling as I pushed your legs open and buried my face in there, the fabric of your panties tearing before my mouth hit paydirt, pulling your hips to my face like a starving man. It wasn't slow, or teasing, or plotted, all appetite and need and lust, wrenching that pleasure from your pussy because I fucking needed to have it.

Your pussy isn't safe. I can't help needing you, eating you out when we the mood strikes, even if it means tearing the crotch of your leggings open and pinning you against the closest wall (something that's happened more than once). So you let me have it, taunting me every day until I take what I want from your pussy, again and again, eating and fucking and eating until I've had enough.