Rory
Scarlett’s hands come up to cradle my face and turn my head so that I’m looking her in the eye when she says, “You know, you’re allowed to kiss me now.”
I say, “I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
She smiles, slow and mean and sweet. “Jesus Christ, you are so fucking adorable. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
And she does.
Her lips part as she guides me down to her.
Her mouth is hot and soft. She tastes like strawberries and electricity—like every reckless wet dream I ever had, bottled and poured down my throat.
I want to devour her, but I hold back and let her set the pace.
She pulls back and whispers, “So, if you’ve never kissed anyone before, does that mean you’ve also never?”
I blush for the millionth time. “Never.”
She bites her lip. “Now I’m scared I might break you.”
“Break me,” I say, dead serious.
She chuckles, then slides her hands from my face to the apron strap around my neck, pulling gently at the bow, then doing the same at the bow at my back. When she tosses the apron aside, my hands itch to twist the fabric no longer there, so instead I wring my hands nervously in front of my crotch.
She smiles gently and places her palms on my chest, letting out an appreciative, “Whoa,” before trailing her hands down my abdomen and playfully running her fingers along my waistband as if it were the rim of a cup she was admiring in the store.
I part my hands and clench them at my side. No longer blocked, she immediately cups the girth of my cock, pressing hard with her palm.
I shudder and let out what I’d like to say is a moan, but is most definitely a loud, guttural moo. My tail lashes behind me, knocking another teacup to the ground.
She slides her palm up and down, slow, strong, and relentless. With each stroke, a panting breath escapes me, and I can’t help but thrust forward into her touch.
She reaches around me, hugging me, but maintaining her pace, and says, “You like that, Rory?”
“Yes,” I gasp, unable to believe this is actually happening.
She cocks an eyebrow, stands in front of me, and tugs at my fly button. “I gotta see this thing up close.”
My heart stops.
She unzips my pants and asks, “You okay?”
I nod, barely able to breathe.
She peels my pants and shorts down, dropping them to my ankles and freeing me. My cock bobs between us, massive and already slick with want.
She looks at it and whistles low. “I mean, I knew it was big, but…” she laughs. “Wow, it’s even bigger than I thought.”
I want to die.
I cover my eyes with my hand, embarrassment flooding my face red hot. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Rory, sweetie, of all the things you might have to be sorry about, this marvelous cock will never be one of them.”
I open my eyes, and she’s looking at my cock as if it’s the spout of a priceless teapot.
I want to live forever.
She runs her thumb along the underside, slow and deliberate, and coos, “Fuck, Rory, I can’t believe you’ve really never used this thing before.”
My hoof paws at the floor.
She presses her lips to the crown, planting a tiny, perfect kiss there on my tip.
My cock lurches and leaks. I groan hard and almost collapse.
“Rory,” she says, “could you stop being so fucking cute? I’m going to have to eat you all up.”
And then she does the unthinkable…
She flicks her tongue out to taste the bead of precum slicking the tip, eyes locked on mine. Then slides her tongue up the length of my cock, licking a stripe from base to tip with a slow, devotional pressure that makes my vertebrae fuse and all conscious thought gutter out.
Her tongue is hotter and softer than I imagined, and she spends a moment just…tasting me, wrapping both hands around my cock—well, mostly around—her fingers don’t quite meet.
She strokes with a twist, flicks her tongue around my crown, and my knees nearly go out. The sensation ricochets up my spine and detonates somewhere in the center of my chest.
I can't help myself—my hands fly to her head, not to grip but to brace, as if I’ll drift away without her as my anchor.
Her hair is so soft. Everything about her is so soft.
She pulls back and kisses the tip again, smiling up at me with mischief so bright it’s radioactive, and then, without warning, she takes as much of me into her mouth as will fit.
I watch, helpless, as her lips stretch wickedly wide and her cheeks hollow with effort.
The heat and pressure are instantaneous, overwhelming.
I gasp so hard I nearly choke on my own breath, and my knees buckle.
She hums low in her throat, sending a vibration through me that almost finishes me right there.
She sucks—hard—drawing a full guttural, bellow from deep within me.
Something on the display table behind me crashes to the ground.
She bobs her head with her hands wrapped around what her mouth can’t reach. Every pass up my shaft is sweet torture—a new edge of pleasure I didn’t know existed.
And just when I think the pleasure is unbearable, perfect, that it can’t get any better, she does something new—like swirling her tongue along the underside and flicking at the ridge of my head.
I’m about to burst. “Scarlett, I…I…”
She pops off with a gasp, then kisses the tip again and says, “Such a pretty cock.”
She stands, wraps her arms around my neck, and pulls my face down to hers. “I want you inside me,” she says. “Like, now.”
I want to say, “I don’t want to break you,” but I know that I already sound like a broken record. So, instead I ask, “What do I do?”
She kisses me again, deeper this time.
My hands tremble as I run them down her back, settling on the curve of her ass.
She grinds against me, moaning softly, then guides my hand between her legs.
When my hand cups around her entrance, I think I’m going to explode once again.
I don’t penetrate her, I just cradle the outside of her like a new piece of beautiful inventory, too nervous to reach past her folds.
She grinds against my fingers, sliding them between her delicate folds. She’s wet, hot, fucking beautiful.
Oh my God. She does want me. She’s so perfect.
I’ve never done this before, but I know the basics. I find what I know to be her clit with such ease and quickness, I wonder why men stereotypically have such trouble finding it. It must be a human thing.
I rub slow, gentle circles, and watch her face and body react to my touch. She arches into me, humming with pleasure.
I find her opening and tentatively press forward, sliding in but not daring to go too far.
She thrusts forward, sinking me deeper into her.
I roll around, feeling her walls, wanting to memorize every square inch.
She rocks against my hand, setting the rhythm, and I think her rhythm says she needs more.
So, I test the theory, placing another finger at her entrance to see if she protests.
She doesn’t.
I press forward.
She gasps, and for a moment I think I’ve done too much, gone too far, but she wraps her arms around me and rocks harder against my hand.
Oh, okay. I can do this.
I curl my thumb just right so that it can reach her clit, and now she’s wailing, and I’m so pleased with myself that my tail knocks over yet another teacup.
I don’t know how many are left, and I really couldn’t give less of a shit.
I’m so fixated on the velvet heat and the little sounds she makes as I work my fingers inside her that it takes me a second to notice she’s moving with intent, not just grinding but maneuvering.
I don’t notice until I’m practically sitting on the table behind me.
She’s pressing me down, forcing me to sit among the teasets.
The whole table rattles, and cups roll along its surface, as if they’re rats fleeing a sinking ship.
She climbs up after me.
I’m stunned, helpless, cock throbbing, as she straddles my chest, bracing her knees at my sides. She lowers, lines up with my cock, wet and hot and holy shit…
I want to say something—I want to ask if she’s sure, if she wants this, if it will fit—but she’s already sinking down, already taking me into herself.
When the head of my cock pierces through her threshold, the jolt shakes loose something inside me. For a moment, all my restraint is gone.
Nothing else matters. Nothing but joining my body with the woman who is my fate.
Giving her what she wants.
Taking what I want.
Claiming her as mine.
I lift her, turning so that she’s on the table, so I can control the thrusts.
Her eyes and grin widen. “Yes, Rory, fuck me, please!”
She fumbles behind herself, sweeping the contents of the table onto the floor in a crash of glazed shards, and drags me down on top of her.
I push forward, and she cries out. The sound pierces through me, a light in the fog of my brain.
I cradle her as gently as my brutish hands will allow, and stop, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you, Scarlett?”
“Yes, Rory,” she gasps, arching backward, taking more of me. “You didn’t hurt me.”
I push forward, slow, careful, watching her for cracks.