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“Fucking you is my fantasy.” His lips slide down my throat. “Anytime. Anyplace.”
Then he drops to his knees and pushes my dress up to my waist. His mouth nudges away the thin veil of my panties and with his hands onmy behind, firmly holding me in place, his tongue licks along my cleft, sliding me apart.
Gasping, I weave my fingers through his hair, clutching handfuls. The carnal play of his lips, his tongue, his entire mouth has my hips winding and my breaths stammering. It’s decadent, thrilling. The way he spears his tongue into my sex, making me quake and quiver.
I hold his head, seeking an anchor, my self-control ripped away in tides of pleasure. I’m lost, completely helpless. Seized by the velvety strokes that now circle my clit. Round and round. Winding me up tight and tighter until I feel like I’m going to break apart.
And then I do. Only it’s not a flash of an explosion. It’s a hot, blissful unfurling. Beginning in my lower belly and billowing outward, downward. A release that is all of me, coming undone, shattering. I’m dizzy with it, spinning, my insides clenching, and Mick doesn’t relent. He doesn’t stop or slow. He holds me up and keeps licking, lapping at that tender spot until I come again, my hips driving up and up. My scarcity of breaths broken whimpers.
I fumble at him. Gripping his shoulders, sure I’m going to asphyxiate if he doesn’t stop. Death by orgasm. Hell of a way to go, but he rises up and I live to see through my post orgasmic daze that his eyes are heavy-lidded, his chest rising and falling. My essence on his face. I should be done, out for the count. But all I want is more.
I yank at the snap of his waistband and carefully lower the zipper over his bulge.
“Poor baby.” I gently squeeze him through the opening.
“Dee,” he hisses in warning.
Turnabout is fair play. I pull his cock out. Thick and smooth. I run my fingers over the pulsing veins. Knowing his body well, what he likes, the way he likes it, I pump him from root to tip, tight and slow, drawing beads of pre-cum to the wide crest and rubbing it over the head.
He whips off his T-shirt and spears me with a dangerous stare. “Turn around.”
Incited by the order and his impatience, I do as he says. The street is a main route to the French Quarter. I’m stimulated by the sights and sounds. By his hot breaths caressing my ear. By his shaft twitching anxiously against the bare cheek of my bottom.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he grits.
“Yes.” I grip the metal rail. He snaps the string of my panties. A car engine roars, a brush of wind strokes over my pebbled skin. I bend at the waist and open my legs for him.
“Christ, that’s sexy.” He slides one hand down the crack of my behind and pushes it between my thighs, spreading me farther apart.
“Mick.” My hips buck, chasing his touch.
“Tell me how much you want it.”
Tension and need coil in my lower belly. “I want it badly.”
“What do you want?”
“Your cock inside me. Fucking me, hard.”
All teasing gone, Mick grabs the sides of my hips, his hands rough and chafing. As much as I anticipate it, crave it, I cry out from the full force of that first thrust, stretching me, filling me. My core melts and trembles around him.
He groans and slides in deeper before pulling out and plunging back in again, and again, shaking my body with slow, powerful drives. I grip the railing, my blood burns, sweat trickles between my bouncing breasts. With every thrust, his thighs relax then flex, his abs slap against my ass, the railing vibrates from the friction of our lower bodies crashing together.
“You love when I fuck you,” he gnashes out. “When I claim you…take you…”
“Yes,” I sob, so turned on by his unremitting possession and the erotic illusion of being on display. “Take me harder.”
His tempo increases to a brute pounding. The wide crest of his crown unerringly hitting my g-spot. The onslaught, unbearable. My orgasm whirls through me like a tornado, with speed and inevitable might. My damp palms cling to the rail, my breaths tumble out in tattered moans.
“God, Dee. You are so fucking good.” He keeps plunging through the clamp of my core, growing thicker. “I’m going to come for you now.”
“No.” I pant. “Not like this. I want to see you.”
His pace slows. He withdraws, sliding out hard and wet. He turns me to him. His breaths are harsh and turbulent. I put a hand to his bearded jaw. “I want to see your face…your eyes when you go over the edge.”
“You want to watch me lose it,” he says hoarsely.
“I do.” My open mouth presses to his, imbibing his breaths. The need to watch him is more exciting to me than the idea of us being watched.
