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“Fuck it,” I say, pushing her shoulder straps down, and she pulls her arms out. Then I lay her back and look down at her, chest heaving, skin flushed. Need and appreciation looking right at me.
There is a question in her eyes. I can’t determine what exactly it is, so I refocus, kissing her neck, making her squirm beneath me and making that sound that gets me harder. Then I slowly move lower and lower.
“So fucking soft,” I say, because she is.
She whimpers as I brush my lips across the globes of her breasts and pull the cups down. Her nipples are tight, little pebbles, the color of rose buds.
I lick across the left one, and she cries out, “Angelo.”
I lick again, and she shivers and whimpers, “Please.”
I lick the right and, as she moans, her hips rise against me.
I move back to the left and suck in her tight, little nipple, and she cries out, “Oh God, yes, Angelo.”
I cup her right breast, squeezing the soft, round globes of flesh, and her hands grip my hair.
“Oh, God... Oh, dear God.” She pulls my head closer to her breast, and I squeeze her tit harder, suck harder, while meeting her thrusts, rubbing my covered cock against her covered pussy.
I look up at her as I suck her tit hard, knowing damn well it will leave a mark, but giving a shit less. And watching her cry out, watching her so tense, and then watching her fall apart under me nearly makes me come in my pants.
Don’t give a fuck.
I do the same to the right.
“Yes, oh, yes,” she whimpers, pulling at my hair again. I fucking like it.
More than her falling apart, I like the fact that she keeps pulling me closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
“Feels,” she pants, “so good.”
She’s tired. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, feel it by the way her grip loosens.
I look up and allow her tit to fall out of my mouth. She licks her lips and looks at mine, so I kiss her.
There are times in my life that I want so fucking badly to get lost in something; something that doesn’t remind me of who I am or what I did. I have never been able to escape it, not without knocking myself out with a fucking pill, not until now.
Nothing about her reminds me of my past, my crime, my choices, or the loss caused by it all.
Women on their knees sucking me off because why? I have no fucking clue, but they asked for it, so they got it. Nevertheless, those moments were lucid. I did not get lost in them. I found no escape in them. All I found was a release.
There is no release here. This is a moment that consumes me. A moment that I am neither sinner nor saint. I am Jonathon, a man in a story, with a woman who wants nothing more than to be consumed for that moment with me.
She travels her hands down my back to my ass as her legs wrap around me. I give in to the pleasure of being touched while tasting her lips, her mouth. I grind against her as she grinds against me. It feels so good... So fucking good, so I grind harder, causing her to moan, to whimper. I grind against her, and her head falls back, our lips no longer touching as she bites hers, and then it falls open in a silent moan. I rub and grind because it feels so fucking good, and she feels good, and we feel fucking good.
She moves her hand again to my hips, then under my pants, where she wraps her hand around my cock, and I thrust into her grasp.
Feels so fucking good.
I let out a growl before taking her lips harder as she strokes me. When I am almost ready to come, I pull away from the kiss and look at her.
“I want you,” she pleads.
“I’m gonna come.”
“Please, Angelo,” she begs as her hand works faster.
My balls tighten at my name. Mine. Not Jonathon. It fucks with me.
I start to pull away.
“Come for me. Come on me,” she begs, gripping me again, pumping me quicker, tighter.
I need to stop this, but I want the release. I want to come for her and on her. So, I do.
My come spurts out all over her waist as she watches with that same look in her eyes—desire and appreciation, but no fucking confusion.
I have never shared a moment like this. I want it, and it pisses me off at the same time, but my release swallows it all.
As soon as I am empty, I pull back, now pissed at myself. “Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”
I storm into the bathroom, grab a washcloth, and then storm back out to clean up my mess.
