Julia #2
He is enjoying this. Enjoying me.
He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my clit, then circles it with the tip of his tongue.
When he sucks it into his mouth, amping up the intensity suddenly, I cry out in shocked pleasure.
"Ricardo!" I gasp.
He doesn't stop. He sucks harder, then gentler, then harder again, a maddening rhythm that has me hovering right on the edge of something big.
Then he lets my clit go and laps at me with the flat of his tongue, lapping up every drop of my arousal.
It's filthy. It's depraved.
And it is the most incredible thing I have ever felt.
He slides one finger inside me, and I moan, my inner muscles clamping down on him. He adds a second, stretching me, filling me, and I can feel myself getting closer, and closer, and closer to the edge.
"Please," I beg, not even knowing what I'm begging for. "Please, Ricardo. Please."
He knows, though. He always knows.
"I have been dreaming of this," he says, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "Of tasting you."
He presses another gentle kiss to my clit. Not nearly enough pressure.
"Dreaming of how sweet you would be."
A longer lick this one. Not quite there.
"Dreaming of how you would look spread out for me like this."
A hard, pointed swirl of the tongue right against my clit. My entire body arches off the blanket. I am so close.
"Dreaming of how you would sound when you come on my tongue."
Then he goes back to the slow, maddening licks, as if the past thirty seconds never happened.
A sob of frustration escapes my lips.
"Ricardo... please," I beg. "Please don't stop."
"And you will," he continues as if I didn't speak at all, almost conversationally. "Don't worry, cara mia, you will. But..."
He curls his fingers inside me, and I have no idea what the hell he just did, but I tense and gasp as the intense pleasure overtakes me. Then he stops, and I collapse back to the rug.
"I've waited too long to have you here like this. I'm not going to be rushed."
Then he does it again. A curl of his fingers. I tense.
Then he stops, and I collapse.
He's playing me like a damn fiddle. He knows every damn button to push, even more than I do, and he's enjoying pushing every single one of them.
He's enjoying watching me come undone for him.
"Ricardo," I plead, my hips grinding shamelessly against his face. "Please."
He does it again for a third time, curls his fingers inside me. When he releases them, I start to figure it out.
He's not just playing with me or teasing me for the hell of it, because he can.
He's trying to draw it out. But more than that, he's teaching me something.
He's showing me that pleasure doesn't have to be a means to an end. It can be an end in itself. That this journey, as frustrating as it is, can be just as pleasurable as the destination.
This isn't about rushing to the finish line and then rolling over to go to sleep.
He's showing me that I can trust him with this.
With me.
And the strangest thing happens. The frustration starts to recede, replaced by something else.
A new kind of desire.
Not the desperate, frantic need I've been feeling, but a deeper, more profound wanting. A wanting to be fully present in this moment, to experience every single sensation, no matter how maddening.
I stop begging. I stop trying to control the rhythm, to force my body toward that elusive peak.
I just... let go and start to enjoy the ride.
I let him guide me. I let him lead. I let him show me the way.
And as I do, the pleasure begins to build again, slower this time. It’s a low, simmering heat, instead of a raging inferno, and it's every bit as intoxicating as it pours through my veins and fills every part of me.
Ricardo seems to sense the shift in me. He slows his movements even more, and each lick, each suck, each curl of his fingers is a deliberate, exquisite act of devotion.
He is still playing me, but I am no longer a fiddle. I am a cello, and he is a master cellist, coaxing a deep, resonant music from my body.
And I am making music with him.
Soft, breathy sounds that I didn't know I could make.
Little whimpers and moans that are no longer begging, but simply expressing the pleasure I am feeling.
He is making love to me with his mouth, and with every touch, every kiss, every lick, he is erasing the memory of a lifetime of bad sex and replacing it with something new.
Something beautiful. Something profound.
He pulls back slightly, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh.
"You taste like heaven, Julia," he murmurs. "I could do this all night."
My inner muscles clench around his fingers at the thought.
He chuckles, a low, husky sound that sends shivers down my spine.
"You like that idea, don't you?" he asks. "Me, between your legs, all night long."
I can only manage a weak nod, my hands clenching against my own skin.
"Don't worry," he says. "We have plenty of time for that. But for now..."
He leans in, and I brace myself for another one of those slow, maddening licks.
Instead, he closes his lips around my clit and sucks.
Hard.
And at the exact same moment, he curls his fingers inside me, hitting that magic spot again.
But this time, he doesn't stop.
He keeps sucking, and he keeps rubbing, and he builds the pleasure, higher and higher and higher, until it is a blinding, brilliant white light that consumes me.
The world explodes.
A cry is torn from my lips that is half pleasure, half pain. Primal and shocked.
My body bows into an arc, and for a long, endless moment, I am suspended in the white-hot bliss, weightless, timeless, free.
I'm aware of nothing but the waves of pleasure crashing over me, one after the other, each one more intense than the last, and the feeling of his tongue lapping at me, drawing out every last drop of my orgasm.
The last thing I remember before my vision goes black is the smug, triumphant look on his face as I shatter around him.