Maeve nearly fell off her barstool when Taryn, the sexiest woman she’d ever known, asked her to fist her. Could she? Should she? She’d always fancied Taryn and after the relationship from hell with Mr. Perfect, Maeve craves more. Hotter, Wilder. Naughtier. And she did ask her…
“What the fuck?” Maeve sputtered her beer over the table as she almost choked at Taryn’s words. She had to have misheard. Sweet, innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Taryn couldn’t possible have said, “Fist me”.
“Fist me. I want you to come home with me tonight and fist me.”
Yes, she did say it. Jeez. “Um, well, um…”
Taryn stood up, dropped some money on the table and held out her hand to Maeve. “Come on. Let’s do it now.”
Her head spinning, Maeve climbed to her feet, snagged her purse off the back of her chair, and took Taryn’s hand.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to fist Taryn. Hell, she’d like nothing better. But it was more, what had happened to the slow build up? The gentle hand touches, the sweet kisses, the pressing of hard nipples into soft, rounded breasts. The romance.
By the time they’d reached the parking lot, Maeve’s brain had started to function. “Um, listen, Taryn. I think we should talk first, before, you know…”
“What’s to talk about? You’re a lesbian. You like me. I want to try out fisting.”
Maeve took a deep breath and told her raging libido to shut up for a few minutes. “Fisting is extreme. It gives the most intense pleasure to both the parties involved. But a hand is a lot wider than a cock you know. It, um, stretches you. Not just physically, mentally as well.”
Taryn pulled Maeve into her car. “That’s what I want. I want that extreme sensation. The drive, the intensity.
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