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He doesn’t pull me to him.
There are no forceful actions that would contradict his previous proclamation.
I want him?
I have to take him.
Balling up the center of his grey t-shirt allows me the leverage I need to yank Tate’s lips to mine. The instant they crash together, body shaking moans are heard from us both. While I expect the collision to unleash some wild speed where one minute we’re vertical and the next we’re horizonal, I’m pleasantly mistaken. Instead, one hand gingerly cups my face. His thumb strokes my cheek. Our mouths part painstakingly slow forcing me to relish in every single intentional movement he makes.
That I make.
Desperation to taste what some would consider forbidden fruit – a man living in an entirely different decade of his life – is why there’s no reluctance for my tongue to swipe at his. Once. Twice. Twice more with much stronger urgency. All of sudden, Tate’s other hand latches onto the nape of my neck, tugging me against his hard frame, trapping the hand that was brave enough to reach out for him like it’s a prisoner of sexual war.
Maybe it is.
And maybe I don’t want it to be free.
His mouth continues its unhurried exploration of mine, rolling and licking and pressing in such an obsessive cycle I find myself forgetting to literally come up for air. The burning in my lungs pales in comparison to the one between my thighs, and it’s that fire, that need for an explosion that pushes me to risk passing out rather than part us.
Our inevitable breakage occurs when the well-built waiter that I can’t wait to serve me in other ways finally rises to his feet to move this thing forward. I anticipate his hand reaching for mine in a silent request for me to guide us elsewhere, but the gliding of his grip down my shoulders, around to my back, to slink along my spine redirects my expectations before erasing them entirely when I’m hoisted upward by the curve of my ass. “Quiero joderte.”
The gasp given as my body wraps around his is immediately taken into his possession by his mouth back on mine.
And possession of me doesn’t stop there.
No.
Claiming continues as he crashes our tangled bodies into the edge of the bar top, eliciting another sharp breath to be inhaled and then once more stolen.
Wild lashes of his tongue are mirrored by the disorderly steering of our frames that knock us into the kitchen table. The back patio doors. The wall that houses an expensive painting by some artist named McCoy that was a housewarming gift from Nat.
Tumbling onto the couch should untwist our limbs or at the very least prompt the peeling away for repositioning; however, the falling impact only unleashes new, darker hunger.
Makes us greedier.
Causes us to claw and tear at the fabric barriers we equally despise for standing in our way.
Logical thoughts of taking our time, establishing boundaries, or completely consenting regarding what’s to come are silenced by barbarous biting of my neck and the impatient widening of my bent knees. Even the responsible reminder to wrap it before you tap is obliterated due to the undeniable imperativeness to have him diving into depths that haven’t been disinterred by another person in over a year. The initial nudging of his hard cock past my soaking wet entrance arches my back at the same time it flings my tits against his chest, pain and pleasure ignited equally by my hard nipples being crushed. Hisses from the collision transpose into howls of ecstasy as his thick shaft stretches the sopping muscles to limits that they’ve never experienced. Tumultuous thrusting effortlessly throws my body around like a doll made of nothing but air and extra thin stuffing. My fingers struggle to find stability on his sweat slickening form, leaving behind scratches on his pecks and biceps alike. Each scrape unearths not only a primitive growl, but a ferocious hammering led by his frantically heaving hips.
Tate wraps one arm around my lower back, preventing my shuddering frame from escaping the increasingly savage stroking of his cock, prior to animalistically grumbling in Spanish, “Coge este bicho.”
Whether it’s the foreign words or the changed accent or the possession they’re spoken with that makes me wetter is unclear yet figuring out which one got me that way is completely unnecessary.
Surrendering whimpers slip out as a prelude to the screaming of his name that begins to occur courtesy of the feverish brushes of my g-spot and the ceaseless caresses of my clit. Rounds of unfathomable ecstasy are sparked and flamed and fed from limb to limb leaving every muscle, every vein, every single cell in my body sexually blistered. Feelings of his teeth carving up the sensitive skin along the crook of my neck spur me to grind into his unrelenting actions faster.
Mercilessly.
So carelessly and mindlessly that I feel like a primitive being with one and only one need to fulfill.
And when Tate’s other set of fingers pitilessly pull my disheveled locks backwards on the same harsh hit to the hilt, the need is met.
Fucking exceeded.
White-hot constrictions capture his cock and call for it to drown in the orgasmic waves trying to hold it under. The frenetic rocking of my quivering figure is accompanied by hitched breaths and airy blissful sobs, sounds I’ve never made during sex.
Sounds I can’t wait to make again.
And again.
