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Her ass shakes and bounces. “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Fuck me! Harder! Give it to me, baby…”
I slip my right hand between my own thighs, massage my clit…inch two fingers into my slickness while fucking her with the dildo in my other hand. Celeste groans, pushing back and meeting my hand stroke for stroke, gulping in all ten-inches.
“Yes! Oh, yesssss! Fuuuuuuuuck meeeeee!”
Sweat coats Celeste’s face, trickles along the back of her neck, then slides down her arched back. Still fucking her with the dildo, I remove my fingers from my own steamy cunt, then feed them to her. She opens her mouth, hungrily sucking them in until she has sucked away the wet stickiness.
Celeste pulls at her nipples. Her head tossed back, she calls out to me. “Miasha!”
I plunge deeper, the pink silicone slipping and sliding and disappearing into her pussy hole. I am pounding away, hard and purposeful. My only response to her cries of ecstasy—more pounding, more thrusting, more bumping her G-spot.
“Miasha!”
“Yes,” I finally say against the swish-swish sounds and swelling of her cunt, relentlessly clutching the dildo. She is panting. Her nails dig into the fabric of the sofa.
“My pussy’s on fire!”
Her skin is hot. She is overheating with passion. Her cunt is churning slick like melting butter. “Yes, I know. You want me to stop?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She wants it just as much as I want to keep giving it to her.
“Oh, God, no! Fuck me! Feed my pussy…mmmph…ooooooh…yes, yes, yes…I’m coming…”
Hot juices drizzle out.
I rapidly stroke my clit, bringing my own pussy release, wetness pouring over my own hand.
We are both gasping and moaning, heartbeats pounding in our chests. I pull the cum-soaked dildo out of her fuck hole, her body jerking and shaking, then press it to her lips, smearing her cream all over her lips before sliding the dildo into my own mouth and sucking it clean. We share another long passionate kiss, then curl up on the sofa—the heat from her pulsing pussy pressed up against my ass—and slowly drift into a deep slumber.
Five
Eight a.m., I awaken beneath rumpled sheets—naked, breathing in remnants of last night. Shadowy hints of perfume and pussy float throughout the room. I climb out of the warmth of my bed, my feet sinking into plush carpet as I walk into the master bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I catch my reflection in the mirror, taking in the matted hair all over my head and decide to take a quick shower.
Ten minutes later, I’m back in the bedroom, standing in the middle of my walk-in closet trying to decide what to slip on. After several minutes of contemplating, I settle on a lace kimono slip dress—nothing on underneath, then make my way downstairs, using the spiral staircase that leads directly down into the kitchen.
Celeste greets me with a smile on her face, and a huge coffee mug in her hand. “Good morning,” she says, offering me the steamy cup. “I made you some tea. Decaf, right?”
I nod, blowing into the cup. “Yes, thank you.” I take a sip.
She wasn’t supposed to still be here. Definitely wasn’t supposed to stay the night. But here she is. Flitting around in my kitchen, wearing a flowing white, ankle-length dress. Her shoulder-length hair is hidden under a white head wrap. “I snuck out early this morning to go home and freshen up, then stopped by the store to pic
k up a few things for breakfast. I hope you’re hungry. I picked up some fruit, and made vegetable omelets, turkey bacon, and my grandmother’s ‘make-you-wanna-slap-somebody’s-momma’ cheese grits—I promise, you’ll love them.”
I smile. My gaze falls to her ample backside as she moves about the kitchen, remembering how almost eight hours ago it had been bounced up over my face. My mouth waters at the thought of having my tongue buried in it again. “Sounds delicious. I’m famished. Do you want any help?”
“No. I got it,” she says, pulling two plates down from the cabinet, then opening another door and grabbing two crystal flutes. “I’ve made us peach Bellinis.”
I nod my approval, surprised at how at ease she is. Aside from my mother-in-law, I try to recall if any other woman had ever been so comfortable in my space, cooking in my kitchen as if this were their home, too. I sip my tea when I come up short, eyeing her over the rim of my cup as she prepares our plates. My stomach growls as she sets a plate in front of me.
“It looks and smells delicious.”
“And it’ll taste even better,” she says, lifting the blender out of its stand and pouring peach puree into each champagne glass, then topping them off with champagne. She waits for the bubbles to settle, stirs the drink, then adds another splash of champagne to each flute before setting a flute on the table next to my plate.
I wait for her to take a seat. She has chosen to sit next to me opposed to across from me. I smile at the gesture. She reaches for her flute, hoisting her glass.
“To special friends, delicious meals, and hot, steamy, decadent sex.”
“Amen to that.”
Our glasses clink.
