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“Smoke, please…”
He could torture me like this all evening and all night if he wanted to, and I’d gladly let him no matter how frustrating it is, but he raises his head without a hint of devious pride on his face, which might just mean he’s good at keeping his pleasure masked if it means getting what he wants. And what he wants is for me to say dirty things, give him direction, and tell him how badly I need him.
“I need you. I need you inside me.”
His face changes and that teasing glint shines in his eyes. “My tongue isn’t talented enough? Here I thought I knew how to use it, but maybe I need more practice.”
“Where? How? Here?”
I have a fantasy of him taking us to the bedroom, shedding all our clothes, and being skin-to-skin with nothing between us. But that fantasy is going to have to wait because I can’t wait to get to the bedroom. I’m going with the original thought, which was to have him here, taking me, his big body pressing me into the couch until I don’t know who I am or where I end and until I know nothing but him, and he knows nothing but me. It might be crazy wanton to not be able to freaking get up and walk a short distance to the bedroom, to not be able to take my time removing clothes, but if I’m wanton, then I’m wanton.
I’m well past the point of caring about labels right now.
“Here. Now,” I plead. “As long as you’re okay with your couch—”
“Fuck the couch. If it doesn’t come clean, I’ll burn it and buy a new one. Or…” He wiggles his brows at me as he crawls up my body, framing and boxing me into the couch with his massive weight and pressing down on me just enough that I sink an inch on cushions that aren’t soft. I have a delicious flashback of us on the floor the last time, the hardwood bruising my spine, then I think about us outside in some forest somewhere, the dirt and the pine needles and the grass stuck in my hair. I also think about how there could be pokey things like twigs and bitey things like insects that want to suck my blood and scary animals and poison ivy. Okay, maybe the couch is pretty sexy, too, because there is nothing that’s going to be riding up my butt crack or feasting on me—um, except for Smoke. No wild animals, no sticks, no grass, no itchy weeds. Just us.
Smoke tears his jeans open, the button and the zipper giving way seemingly in tandem. He pushes his jeans down his hips, and now I’m the one gasping when I realize he’s not even wearing boxers.
“The commando thing isn’t a norm,” he says sheepishly. “It was laundry day. I hate doing laundry. I let it build up until the point of no return. I thought I had one last pair of gotch in the drawer, but nope.”
“I’m going to burn every last pair.” My eyes land on his thick, pulsing shaft, the tip swollen to almost a purple hue, liquid leaking from his tip.
Moisture surges at the back of my mouth. He tasted me, so it’s only right that I taste him. If not tonight, then soon. I’ve never been big into it either way, but I do want to be into it with Smoke. With Smoke, I’d probably try anything if he was there to guide me safely through it to the other side.
I trust him. I trust him with my body. I trust him to keep me safe in all ways.
He turns his wrist, smearing that liquid down his thick, long shaft. I love to watch him do it. I love to watch him stroke his own dick, touch himself, and bring himself pleasure. I also love the way his lips part and he pants and how the arm holding himself up right above me on the couch cushions trembles a little, his veins bristling beneath the silky surface of his inked skin.
Skin that I want to taste. Skin that one day freaking soon I am going to taste every inch of, mapping him with my mouth and tongue and learning his taste as I discover every bit of ink, every freckle, every hair, every vein. Every. Bit.
“Are you okay?” he asks thickly. “I can get a condom.”
“It’s a little bit late for that.”
His smile is lopsided as his hand continues to work his shaft. I want to be doing that. I want to replace his hand with mine. I want to replace his hand with my pussy. My va-jay gives a violent shudder of agreement, my nipples bead under my bra and the fabric of my dress, and my muscles start quaking. At least my entire body is in agreement with that sentiment.
