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Grunting in pleasure, Art retaliates by giving my neck a small yet hungry bite.
Is he also thinking of me in dessert terms? If so, I approve.
He nibbles his way down to my clavicle, and then his face is in the middle of my breasts. I freeze in anticipation, and then… yes! He moves over and sucks in my left nipple, his mouth hot and wet on my sensitive flesh. At the same time, he kneads the other breast, intensifying the sensations.
Panting, I arch against him as he switches his attentions to the other nipple. Then, as if drawn to exactly where I want him most, he slides his tongue down my belly until I feel his warm breath on my sex.
I gasp, and he looks up, his eyes fiery. “You remember what you have to do?”
My cheeks burn with renewed vigor. “Remind me.”
“You will come.” His voice is filled with dark promises. “From my tongue.”
I nod because what is there to say?
He kisses my clit, the pressure of his lips feather light.
I suck in a desperate breath.
He gives his target an indulgent lick, the kind I reserve for a spoon of panna cotta.
I ball my hands in the sheets.
He makes his tongue wide and flat.
My toes curl.
He licks again.
A moan is wrenched from my lips.
He does the kiss thing, followed by the flat-tongue thing, then a lick, and then another round of it all, and another.
With a scream, I do as I was ordered—I come all over his beautiful face.
“That’s a good kislik,” he murmurs roughly, looking up. “Now you’ll come once more. On my cock.” His lips are shiny as he runs his tongue over them, seemingly savoring the taste.
In answer, I crawl over to the nightstand, locate a condom, and hand it to him, then watch with bated breath as he begins to sheathe Mr. Big. Even though the rubber is a magnum (I was optimistic when I purchased them), I’m not sure it will fit.
Whew.
The poor latex doesn’t rip. Now let’s see if he fits in me.
In a blur of fluid movement, Art does his ballet-inspired manhandling magic again, and I find myself on all fours.
How?
Mr. Big gently brushes against my opening.
Oh, my. Forget the how. Forget everything.
I focus on the sensations—a stretch at first, then wonderful fullness.
Art grabs my hips with his strong hands, his thumbs kneading my buttocks.
Fucking finally. Our pas de deux is about to begin.
The first thrust is gentle—adagio, as they call it in ballet. The next few are as well. Then Art slows, as if to check if I’ve fully adjusted to his (rather large) invasion.
