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It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt, the kind that reminds me how wonderful it is to have my pussy kissed senseless by a stunning British man on his knees.
A man who is utterly devouring me.
I babble incoherently, a string of oh Gods and yeses that make him moan against me.
He kisses with so much hunger, so much desperation that his want flips the switch inside me. Bliss coils tight in my belly then unleashes with a force that makes my bones tremble. I shudder, coming on his lips with a loud yes, oh God, yes.
My head is a haze. My chest is heaving. My skin is red-hot as he rises and wipes a hand across his mouth. “You were right. Why bother taking clothes off?”
I gesture to him, making a circle with my finger so I can give an executive order. “Nope. Off. Now. Take off everything now.” I reach for his belt but wobble in my shoes. He steadies me, both hands on my hips as I kick off the heels.
“I think I’m a little sex-woozy.” More like West-woozy, but at the moment, they’re the same.
He drags his lips along my neck, whispering a hot, “Oh no. I hear the only cure is more sex.”
“Then, cure me, West.”
I lead him to my bedroom, then flick on the light because with a man like West, I don’t want to do it in the dark. I want to get frisky with the lights on. I want to see his magnificent body, watch his rippling muscles, gaze at his gorgeous face as he breaks apart.
As he makes me break apart again.
Once in my room, I strip off his shirt. Having fun with his belt, I hum a naughty little tune as I unbuckle it, then slide down his pants. He toes off shoes and socks then works his fingers down the front of my dress. He’s quick and adept with all the little buckles and snaps, but he’s missing one critical bit of data.
“I’m going to give you a tip, Mister Sexy English Cuber.”
He raises his face, tilts his head. “What would that be?”
I spin around. “There’s a zipper.”
He laughs, and even that’s sexy. Husky. Just right. “Zippers are my new favorite thing,” he says, sliding it down notch by delicious notch. The sound of it opening sends a thrill through my body. He guides down the fabric, the straps over my arms, the bodice falling down my waist, then to the floor.
“So beautiful,” he says, as he draws a line with his finger along my spine to the top of my ass. “This back is so fucking gorgeous. I want to mark it. With my hands. With my come.”
I shudder at the prospect of all those glorious coming opportunities. And I make a mental note that if all goes well, I might even ask him for a repeat because I like the sound of that last dirty one—a lot.
Yes, I want more West already. I want another night like this, from the way it started at the bar to the way it’s playing out now.
He whirls me around once more and unhooks my bra.
Then it’s my turn, and I feel like I’m unwrapping a present. As I reach his boxer briefs, I grin wickedly. They’re orange. For some reason, this delights me. Most men wear black or gray. West isn’t afraid to don a pair of bright orange boxer briefs, and the color does wonders for his cock.
But then his cock seems to be the eighth wonder of the modern world.
I push his briefs down, gasping as I take in the view of his arousal. He’s hard, thick, pulsing. I wrap my fingers around his shaft, and he twitches in my hand.
I grow even wetter. A pulse beats between my legs, and I ache for him.
“Gigi,” he rasps out.
“I would like to ride this cock,” I say with wicked glee.
“Then cover me up, woman, and get on top.”
I hustle over to my nightstand to grab a condom, but the expiration date is not my friend.
“Oh shoot,” I say.
“Are they expired?”
“Yes. It’s been ages.”
He reaches for his wallet in his pants, flicks it open, grabs the protection. Moving to the bed, he settles onto it and slides it down his cock. I climb over him, straddling him.
“Now ride me, gorgeous. Ride me like you’ve wanted to all night,” he says, clutching my hips, lifting me above so I’m poised to drop down on his fantastic erection.
“How do you know I’ve been wanting to do it all night?”
Brushing a finger along my hip, he levels me with a hot stare. “The way you look at me.”
Trembling with pleasure, with anticipation, I ask, “How do I look at you?” I’m shameless with him, but his praise is life. I want to eat it up, drink it down, swallow it whole. His words are sexier than his body, and his body is a work of art.
