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Smoke’s hands move tenderly, laying me back against the firm leather cushions, peeling my dress back around my waist, and exposing my long, lithe legs to him. He positions me just right, and when I realize what he’s doing, I want to laugh at myself for thinking that this would be vanilla just because he’s gentler now.
Even though the blinds might be closed, it’s full-on bright in here, and he’s spreading my legs, opening them wide, wide enough for his big shoulders to settle in between.
“Want to see that pussy, pink and swollen for me,” he growls, deliciously dirty. “Can I take these off?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Get them off and do more than look. I want you to feast on me until I’m screaming your name.”
I’m not embarrassed to tell this man what I want. That I need him. What’s shameful about giving pleasure to someone you care about and truly desire? About making them feel good? As long as everything is fully consensual between adults, there isn’t any shame to be had. When Smoke pulls down my panties, leaving a glistening trail of my arousal on my thighs because I’m already trembling, throbbing, and soaking, I’m as aroused as he is. We’re both panting as he laps my juices from my thighs, licking and suckling and eating at me messily before dragging in a sharp inhale. He growls when he breathes me in, and my eyes crash shut.
My god, this man and the things he does to my body—the things he can do without even touching me.
He makes me feel totally alive. His body brings mine to life in ways that I’ve never experienced. I want him to know me like this. I want to know him. I want to memorize each and every detail until his body feels like a home I can come back to over and over.
His hand cups my pussy suddenly, and his knuckles dip down, exploring me, one finger circling my folds through the wetness.
“So wet,” he groans.
“For you. Because I still remember how hard you made me come last time.”
“That was just a teaser. This is the real deal.”
The first hot pass of his tongue backs up his dark words. He hums with the taste of me like he’s dipping into a well of honey or sour candies. Sour candies are freaking delicious. I arch into his mouth, my hips eager for his tongue, his lips, his teeth, his fingers. All of them work in tandem as he teases me. He eats me hungrily, messily, without shame or care for how loudly he’s doing it. Those sounds in the full light as I’m spread open for him in the most intimate way? I tangle my hand in his hair and fist hard, pulling his face into me and probably nearly smothering him with my pussy because I’m so freaking eager to show him that this is everything I’ve wanted, and I’m perfectly fine with it happening in his living room, on the couch. Because to me, what we’re doing is right.
Maybe I’m just extremely hormonal already, but I know it felt right, too, the first night we were together. It felt like two bodies made for each other were finally finding the endlessly missing puzzle piece—that stupid piece that was never there, right from the factory in a two or three-thousand-piece bastard of a puzzle. Then suddenly, one day, while you’re cleaning, you find it, and when you try it, it just clicks, and the whole picture is just there, and it’s absolutely beautiful.
“You taste like heaven,” Smoke growls between my legs. “Smell like heaven too.” He raises his head, and I open my eyes as he pulls away. He lets me see the evidence of my desire, my passion, my need dribbling off his chin and glistening on his lips, then he ducks his head and eats me like a madman again, growling and moaning in time with my feral whimpers.
“I keep my hands locked in his thick hair to keep from tearing his couch to shreds. My hips are relentless, driving and rolling into his face. I pant so freaking loudly that the sound pretty much echoes off the walls.
He’s so talented with his tongue that it deserves a gold medal. He lashes my clit until I’m straining against the couch, then uses the flat of his tongue to gather my nectar all the way down my seam. He groans against my clit after licking his way back, and I can feel the vibration of that sound straight to my stomach. He suckles hard at my clit, swirling his tongue brutally, but it’s not enough.
I need more. I want more. Even though I’m thrashing against him, soaking his couch, which, thank goodness, is leather, and riding his tongue, I need more. I need all of him. I want the skin of his body pressed to mine, I want the roadmap of his veins and the brutal stampeding heartbeat pressed to me, and I want to taste the salt of his skin, to feel him inside me, so thick that it hurts.
