Chapter 17 #2
He rises, changes seats, settles into the cushion in front of me, and all the while his eyes never leave my breasts.
The last time a man studied me this hard was Greg, shortly before suggesting I get a lift.
Instead, Saylor’s paralyzed hands reach out, hovering over my chest like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch.
I take his hands and put them on me, just under my ribcage where the skin is softest. I breathe in, and his fingers tighten, anchoring me to this moment.
“Do you like this?” I ask, with all sincerity.
There’s a vulnerability in the question that I can’t mask.
I’m sure he’s used to seeing different bodies.
Firmer, fuller, more confident. There’s not just underweight and overweight anymore.
Women are expected to have bodies that defy physics and gravity.
Boobs that stay perched high on their shelves but feel natural.
Asses that are bubbly and round, but only if it’s paired with thigh gaps and flat stomachs.
A size-zero waist, and size-eight hips. We spend so much time thinking about what we should be, we never appreciate what we are.
Saylor seems to be appreciating me exactly as I am. Flat-chested, hip-less, and so desperate for him to still see beauty where I used to.
“Fuck, Celeste. Do I like this? Right now I feel bad for every woman in the world who doesn’t get to wake up and be you.”
I bask in the compliment, letting it shower over me, rinsing away all my insecurities. “You think I’m hot?”
“I think you’re spellbinding…and yeah, super hot.”
“Okay, good. As long as you’re into it.”
“I’m very into it.” His voice goes low and husky. The way he moistens his lips tugs at something well below my navel.
I reach for his waistband, fingers sliding under the elastic of both sweats and briefs, and there’s a split-second where he tenses, hissing out a controlled breath like I just grazed his self-destruct button.
I pull both down in a single movement and Saylor’s dick springs out in a way that’s almost comical, cartoonish, like nobody could have ever drawn this up and expected anyone to buy it.
I try not to gawk but it’s impossible: he’s huge, long and thick, with a gentle curve that makes it look like it’s perpetually in mid-salute.
His skin is smooth, ruddy at the crown and flushed deeper at the base, with a neat, clean line where his hair’s trimmed down almost to nothing.
At the tip a single bead glistens, clear and obscene, and for a moment I just watch it, tracing the physics of gravity as it clings and then releases, a slow-motion drip onto his thigh.
He looks down at me and his face is all amusement and vulnerability, a silent “well?” that hangs in the air.
I take him in my hand, careful at first—there’s a pulse to it, a throbbing that makes my palm tingle.
I run my thumb over the slick tip and he lets out a soft breath, his chest rising.
His cock is heavy and hot, alive. I bring my mouth to him, just the head, and taste him, salt and a little bitter and faintly like skin after sun.
I swirl my tongue around the head, collecting every drop of him, mapping the groove that crowns it, and he shudders so hard I almost lose my grip.
I start slow, learning his rhythm—he likes it when I stroke him with one hand, twisting slightly at the end, while flicking my tongue just underneath where the skin is taut and sensitive.
I take him deeper, until the tip presses against the roof of my mouth, and the air is full of his soft, shaky moans.
I realize, with a delighted scientist’s curiosity, that he really, really likes it when I use my other hand to cup his balls.
The reaction is instant: his whole body tightens, his hips jerk up, and his breath turns ragged.
So, as a follow-up experiment, I draw one of them into my mouth, gently, and stroke his shaft at the same time.
Saylor groans, louder than I expected, the sound ricocheting around the living room and vibrating through my palms. He’s clinging to the cushions, white-knuckled, and for a second I worry he might actually break my bespoke sofa.
But it turns me on, the way he surrenders, the way he’s so unguarded.
I switch it up, using both hands, twisting, squeezing, then taking him as deep as I can go.
I peer up at him through my lashes and he’s staring down, eyes glassy and desperate. “Celeste,” he says, voice strangled. “You have to stop or—”
I don’t stop. I become relentless, a metronome of pressure.
He’s saying, “wait, fuck, stop, shit, hang on,” and then, “don’t stop, don’t stop, oh my God,” and I’m getting drunk on it.
On his surrender. It’s not a collapse or a defeat, but an offering.
Saylor is letting me have him, the whole trembling, pulsing, gasping mess of him, and if this is a power trip then sign me up for the annual convention and let me chair the committee.
My jaw aches a little, but I don’t care.
I want to give him this. I want to watch him dissolve.
I want to be the woman he thinks about, the mouth he remembers, the memory that leaves him stammering and glazed and the next time he sees me across a room I want him to remember the way I’m making him feel right now.
I want his release. I make it my mission.
I flatten my tongue and take him as deep as I can, letting my spit run down, messy and hungry, and his hands find my hair, gentle at first, then not.
He’s bucking against my mouth. He’s holding on to me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.
He’s close. He’s so close. His legs are shaking.
He’s making noises I’ve never heard from another human.
The way he says my name—Celeste, Celeste, baby, baby, like a mantra—makes something inside me turn liquid and reckless.
And I’m oh-so-fucking-close to my victory when Saylor rips out of my mouth.
In one fluid motion, he’s off the couch, we’re both on our feet.
He yanks down my pajama shorts and thong like he detests them.
Sitting at the edge of the couch, he spreads his knees, displaying his cock, thick and glistening.
I’m entranced by the sight, almost immobile, so he has to guide me between his legs.
His hands are rough and greedy on my hips, my ass, my thighs—then, almost ceremonial, he cups my mound, index finger sliding through the slickness there.
I’m wetter than I’ve been in…ever. But it must not be enough for him.
He spits in his palm, rubs it over the head of his cock, and then reaches between my legs, massaging the spit and my own wetness over my clit with slow, deliberate pressure.
He doesn’t shy from it, doesn’t ask if I want it, just moves as if the two of us have been doing this together for years, and now every nerve ending is sparking, every inch of me turned forward and urgent.
He slides a finger inside, then a second, curling up and pressing against the spot that, when touched, turns my whole core to white noise.
I gasp; he grins. “That’s it,” he says, a coach and a worshipper all at once.
He strokes me like he’s learning a song by ear, adjusting tempo and pressure until I’m quaking.
He guides me onto his lap, my legs draped over his, and continues to play with my clit like it’s a stress ball.
I could come from this feeling alone, but suddenly I’m empty, his hand gone, and the next sensation is the blunt, hot head of his cock at my entrance.
He holds me there, poised, the tip just nudging in, and I realize he’s waiting for permission, or maybe for the satisfaction of watching my face as I take him.
I look him in the eye and lower myself, slowly, feeling the stretch, the impossible fullness of him, and then he’s all the way in, and I’m all the way gone.
Leaning back, the cushions swallow him, and he takes me with him, my knees on either side of his hips.
He spits in his palm again, messy and determined, and reaches down, slicking the wetness over my clit and his cock at once.
It’s filthy and perfect and I want him to take me like a drug.
I want to know I’m the reason pure ecstasy is speckled in his eyes.
He holds me by the hips, fingers digging deep, and begins to move me.
Slow at first, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
I won’t break. It’s an effort not to laugh with joy as I realize how strong I am, how much of him I can handle, how much I want.
I match his rhythm, rocking forward, back, forward, again, until the whole world is just the heat and the slip and the impossibly good friction.
His hands slide up to my waist, then my ribs, then my face, cupping it like I’m precious, and he brings me down for a kiss so tender it almost breaks the spell.
Almost. But this salacious magic, flesh against flesh, a cocktail of his pleasure and mine, is too deep.
Too carnal. This can only end one way, and that’s with him spilling into me, stars in our eyes, and no air in our lungs.
We’re both sweating and shivering. He’s close again but he’s fighting it, hard, his jaw clenched, eyes wild.
In a low growl, he demands, “Ride me, baby,” and I do.
I take it as a challenge. I let myself go, chasing it, grinding down and circling my hips until I feel the pressure building behind my pubic bone, the tension so tight I could snap.
Saylor’s hands lock on my hips, and for a minute I let him control the pace, the thrust. He’s so deep I can feel every pulse, every twitch.
He leans back, one arm folded behind his head, the other traveling lazily down my chest, tracing the sweat pooling between my breasts, pinching a nipple until I whimper.
I can’t decide if I want to ride him into the couch or fall apart right here. I’d be good with either. Both.