GRANT REILLEY! who doesn't come up for air until he's dizzy, his face buried in the seam of your pussy, his tongue, wet and warm and eager, curling against you in slow, sticky stripes that leave lines of saliva stuck to his chin and string along your puffy folds. He's sloppy with it once he feels you loosen up, thumbs spreading you open to dribble spit onto your twitchy little hole, smearing the mess against you with his fingertips. Bonus points if you're all whiny and squirmy, fingers tangled in his hair and hiccupping "More- Grant- there-" and looking down at him with those pretty fucking eyes-
GRANT REILLY! whose favorite way to eat it is from the back, snaking one of those fluffy pillows he thinks is ridiculous under your tummy, kissing from the nape of your neck down the length of your spine, little open mouthed kisses pressed against each vertebrae, humming about how sweet you taste when he finally reaches you're cunt he's starved, pistoning the thick muscle of his tongue in and out of you, groaning against your slit when you shiver around him.
GRANT REILLY! who still won't fuck you, no matter how hard you beg, or bat those fluttery lashes up at him "nuh uh, sous, you know better," he taunts slightly, but the words are so soft and syrupy, spilling nto your ear like honey and making your chest feel paticularly fuzzy, "not until you're head chef, yeah?" which makes him snicker against your neck when you pout, and distracts you by sliding his tongue against your pouty bottom lip, then against the roof of your mouth when you gasp, and once against the cheek just the watch the way your face scrunches up.
GRANT REILLY! who lets you wear yourself out riding his thigh instead, those stupidly soft, big brown eyes wrinkled with the same smug amusement he gets from whispering "too salty, chef" against your ear where your sure Taylor and her new motherly instincts had side-eyed the two of you. He splays his palm again the span of your throat, and he soaks up the way your rhythm stutters slightly, french tips curling against his biceps, a choppy little hiccup of his name and "cumming-hck-" made him roll his knee forward, meeting his whines with breathy little pants of his own, the thick ridge of his cock swollen against the zipper of his sauce stained jeans
GRANT REILLY! who reassures you that it's perfectly fine to cum when a guy squeezes your throat, and pinky promises not to tell anyone France's finest was so...easy.
