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“So wet for me,” he says, spreading me open.
“I am,” I say, and I’m in a sex trance.
Seems he is, too, gazing wantonly at me. But not for long. Sliding his hands under my ass, he pulls me close to his face and blows out a hot breath on me. I’m so vulnerable here, naked in the arms of a man I hardly know. But I like not knowing him. I like that we have no history. We have only our shared desires, comprised solely of lust as his lips press hungrily against my wetness.
“Oh, god.”
“Fuck my face,” he urges, scooping me closer, tugging me against his stubbled jaw and devouring me.
He’s not gentle. He’s not sweet. He’s voracious as he kisses me like he’s starving. I am his meal as he licks and flicks and eats, drawing my greedy clit into his mouth then sucking, driving me wild with pleasure. I grind and rock like he commanded me to do.
I’m so wet, it’s obscene. I’m so aroused, I should be embarrassed.
But I’m not because he’s so turned on. His noises are raw and primal—greedy moans paired with hungry hands as he squeezes my ample ass and worships my wetness.
In seconds, I’m close again, cresting again. Waves of bliss crash over me, and I cry out, reaching for the edge. “I’m close,” I say, arching against him, hunting for pleasure.
But then, the devil—the fucking devil—stops. He sits up on his knees, and I howl. “I wanted to come.”
With a smirk, he grabs my wrists and mirrors his move from earlier, climbing over me and pinning them above my head.
“I know you did.” He smirks. “Tell me I’m a dick.”
“You’re a dick. You denied me,” I say, and those aren’t words I ever thought I’d say to a man in the heat of the moment. But I feel strangely free to voice them. To sass him. To give him a hard time. Maybe because he’s been so forthright with me, I can be direct with him.
He shoots me a crooked grin. “Your sweet pussy is aching for me, isn’t it?”
“Finn!” I’m half shocked I have the nerve to beg but mostly helpless to do anything else. “You’re terrible!”
He sighs, seeming so damn pleased. “Beg for it. Beg for me.”
I don’t know if he means with his cock or his mouth or his tongue. But I truly don’t care. “Make me come,” I plead.
He reaches into the drawer of his nightstand and takes out a tiny black vibrator. “Bought this the other night. Just for you,” he says.
Are you kidding me? He bought me a vibrator? My entire sex life for the last several months has consisted of quality time with vibrators. Bring it on.
“Now,” I demand.
He slides the vibrating toy across my aching center, then comes close to my face. Only, he doesn’t kiss my mouth. He kisses my neck while he glides the vibrating bullet across my clit.
I’m burning up with the need to climax. My back arches. My toes curl.
He didn’t lie. He is obsessed with my pleasure, and I think I am too. But I’m also clawing at the sheets, overcome with the chase. I’m begging, thrashing. “Please, please, please.”
It’s exhilarating and excruciating all at once.
Especially when he turns off the vibrator, leaving me wailing. “Finn,” I cry.
And this is strange too. This weird comfort I feel with him. This freedom to beg, to plead, to ask for what I want.
But I don’t have to ask. Because he’s got a plan, and it involves his magic mouth.
He slides back between my legs and looks up at me, that glint returning to his eye.
“Come now.” He eats me. I rock against his face, shoutingyes, yes, yes. Pleasure whips through me in a wild frenzy, a burst of color and lights and incomparable bliss.
I shake with ecstasy, and he groans like nothing in his life is better than my climax.
