Twenty-One
I t feels like the best thing to do is just not to kiss each other while we do whatever filthy thing we need to. Kissing, I figure, is where we really went wrong. It just feels too affectionate and real, in among getting each other off. And we are really into getting each other off now.
We wake up already rocking against each other, half moaning and murmuring things we shouldn’t be saying. And unlike the night before, there’s very little that’s practical about it.
He’s almost holding me in his arms. One of his hands is deep in my hair.
And I can feel how hard he is. That big dick is all heavy and hot against the sensitive groove between my thigh and my pussy – not quite rubbing there, but not quite not, either. Enough, I think, for me to rub back without feeling bad about it.
Though god, when I do.
It sends a streak of pleasure through me so intense I would think it was an orgasm, if it wasn’t for the ache still in me. How desperate I still feel over the slightest thing. His hand slides down my back and almost cups my ass, and I actually feel my clit pulse and swell.
Then he actually does it, and I can’t help it.
I moan his name, in a way that makes him moan back. It makes him squeeze me there, just a little, and say all hoarse and desperate in my ear, ‘Oh gosh, I’ve wanted to do this since that day at your door, I just wanted to fill my hands with this juicy round peach, and I know that’s bad, I know, I know I shouldn’t—’
So I cut him off with a hand over his mouth.
I have to. Because it doesn’t just make me hot. It starts making me think more. Like he doesn’t just mean that he saw any old hot ass and lost his mind over it. He means he saw me, and wanted me, and always has, and so maybe always could. And that’s bonkers. I need to get it back to all business.
But the problem is: How to do it?
I’ve already banned kissing.
I can’t tell him not to say sexy things to me. Or keep this hand over his mouth all through whatever we’re about to do. Though I have to say, it’s just as hot as watching him do it to himself in the hot tub. His eyes go wide the second I do it, and his whole body tenses.
Then he just kind of melts into it. He dissolves into even more desperate rutting, until I feel pretty sure he might come like this. Every time his cock insinuates itself into that soft groove, he shudders. He groans for me, loud and abandoned enough that I can feel it vibrating through my palm.
Pretty soon he’s more kissing me there than being gagged. His mouth gets all open and wet, and I’m hardly holding on, and so when the words come they’re clear as day. ‘Oh darling, I’m coming, I’m coming, oh god, you make me come so hard,’ he says, and honestly I don’t know what I like best.
The hard , or the coming , or the darling .
Fuck. I think it might be the darling .
In fact I know it is. Because when I collapse back onto the bed, all covered in his come and so horny I could fuck a bus, I don’t feel the way those things should make me. I don’t feel purely about the sex, without a single creeping affectionate feeling. I feel like telling him to call me that again.
And only stop myself by saying the dirtiest thing I can think of.
‘You want to lick this off me?’ I go with. Then just to really drive it home, I swipe two fingers through all the mess he’s made, and slide them into my own mouth. I suck, all rude and greedy, thinking he’s going to blush and balk. Maybe it’ll even ruin the mood. Maybe it’s too much.
But apparently it’s not enough.
Because he lets out a guttural little gasp, horny as I’ve ever heard anyone be, and then he does it. He does it. He leans down and licks his come from my thigh, my belly, that sensitive groove between both. And as he does, he plays with me. He teases my aching pussy with his left hand, as his right pulls me close to his working mouth. Like he’s getting super confident about this now.
He can dig his fingers into my thigh and my ass, just a little. Use it to manoeuvre and manipulate me into exactly where it’s best to be, to get as much of his mouth on me as he can. And when I’m right there, so tight to him it feels like he’s devouring me whole, he strokes over my bursting clit.
Not quite roughly.
But not quite not, either.
Just perfect, absolutely perfect, like last night was a lesson and he’s learned it well. He knows already how to do me, and it pays off in spectacular style. I come before he even tries for it a second time. And I do it hard, too. God, it’s way too intense for what this was.
Barely anything at all, and I’m fisting a hand in his hair and arching right up off the bed. He has to pin me back down, just to get me to fully feel it all. One big hand spread over my hip, the other still between my legs, not stroking now but kind of pressing . Almost hurting, in a way that shouldn’t be good.
But somehow extends my orgasm, to almost obscene levels.
And only when I’m panting and wrung out does he pull back. He sits up, over me. Face a mess, moustache askew. Grinning in this goofy way, already telling me that he learned that from a book, too. Ridiculous , I think, completely ridiculous .
But unfortunately for me, it doesn’t feel it.
It feels like he’s the best thing in the world.
And all I want to do is tell him so.