9. Elyse #3
He pushes his finger the whole way in, and I want to die with happiness. He sucks in a harsh breath. “Fuck, that’s tight. So wet, though.” I can tell from the warmth of his breath on my flesh that his face must be right there. “The question is, can you take another?”
“Yes?” I ask, and he laughs. I’m growing addicted to making him laugh.
“That’s the spirit. And for that…”
My reward is his tongue swirling over my clit, and I really am going to die now.
It’s soft and luxurious and perfect. He definitely doesn’t need to do this—he’s paying me, after all—but then he groans decadently against me, and it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
He sounds ravenous. Once again, he adjusts the way he’s holding me, stretching me as wide as he can—“So fucking slippery”—and puts his tongue back on me right as he pushes another finger inside of me.
The stretch means my clit is entirely available to him and perfectly exposed to his devastating tongue.
I let out some kind of awful wail before clamping my lips together in mortification. I am not going to survive this.
He twists his fingers and gives me another lave of his tongue.
“Jesus fucking Christ, I could do this all night long,” he says with the rasp of a man in pain.
“Next time, I’m going to put you in fucking stirrups and eat you for hours and hours.
” I studiously ignore the alarm bells that next time and stirrups should ring and moan my appreciation for that suggestion.
“What has you so hot, I wonder?” Lick. Twist. “Does being paid turn you on? Or is it knowing I could have had any woman I wanted but I was so fucking desperate to stick my face in your pretty little cunt that I had to make it so you couldn’t refuse?
” Another hot rhetorical question I assume—but he pauses.
“I’m waiting.” As if to underscore his point, he slowly drags his fingers out of me.
“Uh, that. Just—you. This. Oh my God.” Not my most articulate moment, but I’m not in a place to analyze this. All the blood in my brain is swelling my clit to the size of a golf ball right now.
“Yeah.” His voice grows softer as he slides his fingers back inside me and I clench around them like the greedy-ass ho that I apparently am.
“Me too. You have the most perfect cunt I’ve ever seen.
So pink. So soft. Men would do very bad things for a chance to taste it.
And they’d maim and kill to stick their dicks inside it, that’s for sure.
” With that ominous proclamation, he clamps his mouth to my clit.
I’m expecting him to draw it out, tease me, make me beg like he threatened, but he fucking goes for it, licking and sucking while driving his long, thick fingers into my pussy over and over.
It’s the most perfect kind of onslaught and one I am powerless to withstand.
The urge to come grows unbearable within seconds.
Every inch of my skin is covered in goosebumps.
My nipples are tingling. And the waves of molten heat coursing over my entire pussy, inside and out, are out of control.
His fingers and mouth are hitting everywhere I need them to.
Everywhere. I can tell by his jerky movements that he’s losing control, too, and that knowledge, that Sinclair fucking Voss is feasting on me and losing his goddamn mind, has my arousal ramping up impossibly further.
I’m out of my mind, too, with this need for release.
My neck is aching from my efforts not to put too much weight on my throat, my arms are growing stiff, and my legs?
My legs are shaking so hard they’d definitely collapse if not for the support under my stomach.
I’m trapped like this, and it means there’s no outlet for all this crazy energy.
It means I have to stand here and take this relentless assault from his mouth and his hands, and all of that makes the sensation so much more potent, more concentrated.
Angels are singing. I feel feverish. My only outlets are pushing my pussy back into his face as fully as I can and giving in to the necessity of using my voice.
My moans turn to full-on cries now as my climax hurtles toward me like a freight train. I’m talking gibberish, twisting my head uselessly from side to side, flapping my hands in their primitive restraints. “Please,” I say. “Please, I beg you. Harder. I can’t—Oh my God. Shit. I can’t. Fuck, I’m—”
Just like that, my orgasm slams into me.
I am a rock slingshotted into outer fucking space.
It’s heaven. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt in my life.
I am air and fire; I am pure oxygen ignited.
Wave after atomic wave ripples over me thanks to Sinclair’s relentless tongue, and as they begin to soften, I find myself utterly spent, a rag doll, my arms and legs floppy.
He withdraws his fingers and drags them wetly down over my well-used clit. “I hope you can stay standing for a few more minutes,” he drawls, sounding out of breath but more self-satisfied than ever, “because it’s my turn now.”