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After no sex for three years, I’ll be sealed up nice and tight. His beast would rip me apart. Although I am totally ready, I am not having sex with this smoking hot Jamaican man.
I needed to get this going before I had any more silly ideas.
I increased my pace, jacking my hand up and down his rod with smooth repetition. I squeezed and twisted with each movement. A fine layer of sweat gave his already gorgeous body a luscious sheen.
Dontrel moaned, and I went faster. He threw his hands out, latched onto the bed sheets, and released a deep, primal groan as his white-hot seed shot out of his cock and flew across his belly to pool in his navel.
Hot damn, I enjoyed that as much as he did.
I stood and drove my fingers into myself. My wet folds gripped around my fingers as I pumped them in, out, and over my clit with greedy ferocity. Dontrel joined me, driving his fingers into my pussy. First one, then two.
We worked together. . . he plunged in and out, deep inside me, while I punished my clit like never before.
Every nerve in my body was electric. I tensed, begging the glorious build-up to last longer. I slipped into excruciating pleasure. I was on the edge. So close. Teetering on the brink.
I held my breath. I saw stars. The moon.
I cried out as my orgasm released. It was explosive, gripping me with blissful intensity as I came again and again. Sprinkling over Dontrel’s hand. Over mine. Down my legs.
Sex was very messy business. And once again, I forgot to bring a small towel. But, oh Lordy, if it wasn’t the most amazing thing in the world.
Yet this wasn’t even sex. It fascinated me that I could have so much sexual fulfillment without a man’s cock inside me.
That thought was incredibly empowering.
I would be the one to decide what I did with my body and with who. And I would know when I found the right man to take this crazy adventure to a new level.
Today, I was nearly there.
My knees threatened to buckle beneath me as I gathered my discarded clothing and slipped into my shoes and coat. Dontrel lay on his side, watching me with a delirious grin as his spent cock rested on the bed sheet.
“Anytime you want t’play, call me. My business card is on the table.”
I plucked one of the shiny black cards off the dining table and read it. Then I cocked my head. “You live in Jamaica.” I tucked it into my coat pocket anyway.
“Ever heard of Zoom?” He wriggled his eyebrows.
I laughed. “Thank you for your help.” I blew him a kiss and strode to the door.
“Now worries. But I need your name. Please?”
I met his glorious green eyes. “I’m Memphis.”
“Ahhh. Memphis! I’ll write a song about you, Madam Memphis. You’ve made my heart and body sing this morning.”
With that wonderful comment, I left the smoking hot drummer in the morning sunshine and returned to my room.
I showered and moisturized, and while I ate Peanut Butter on toast, I reached for my diary. At the top of the page dated 11th of February, I wrote Dontrel Lewis, Mr. Holy Hotness, room 44. I described my sexy Jamaican man with the voice like liquid gold in great detail and then wrote what I’d learned today.
Sex didn’t need to be serious business. It could also be fun.
When I crawled into bed, I was surprised that it was nearly ten o’clock.
Dontrel had helped me lose three hours of my otherwise boring day.
And what a way to squander the minutes.
As I tugged the sheet under my elbow, I pictured Dontrel’s stunning eyes that were the color of spring moss and recalled his voice that was as soothing as a lover’s embrace.
