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When we pull apart, he gives me a heated expression and rubs his thumb across my bottom lip. “Where did you come from?”
Not waiting for an answer, he walks away and leaves me a panting mess. I collapse backwards on the barrel letting my head hang off. Where did you come from? Hell, I’m asking myself the same question about him. How does this man exist, and where the fuck has he been all my adult life? My eyes fall shut and I focus on regulating my breathing. The temperature seems to have risen again to an almost unbearable level, what I wouldn’t give for a cool dip in the ocean right now.
Fire licks against my right nipple and my eyes shoot open. Son of a bitch, that hurt. A string of colorful curse words fly out of me and I jerk upright, but the tattooed giant pins me to the barrel with a massive hand pressing down on my shoulder. I search his pools of amber, only finding a hint of amusement and a boatload of heat. He brings the fire down on my nipple again and I realize it’s not a lit match like I thought, but a piece of ice.
Holy shit, I could get down with this. The sharp sting fades to pleasure, and I whimper as he glides the ice over the opposite nipple, toying with me before trailing down my abdomen.
“Open your legs wider,” he demands.
I willingly obey, spreading my thighs further apart and tilting my hips up to give him easier access to where I desperately need him. Cool air glances off my sensitive flesh. It’s a struggle to stay still when everything I need to be satiated is just out of reach. My eyes go bug-wide as he spits in his hand and brings it down on the mound of my pussy, slapping me with a thudding force.
Silence abounds, only broken by our heavy tandem breathing. He’s keenly watching me with an unreadable expression shuttering over his features. My brain catches up with my body and a scream pierces the air a moment later. What the actual fuck? Did he really just spank my pussy? With a piece of ice between his fingers no less? That can’t be a thing, right?
Abated pain ricochets through me, and I spark like a goddamn electric board in a storm. Yet, I writhe in his hold, mewling like a damn kitten. I think … I think I want him to do it again. Maybe? Jesus, I don’t know. It’s impossible to weed through my emotions and thoughts, they’re all weighed down by a heavy dose of desire and lust.
“Fuck me,” I groan, shaking my head.
“I plan to.”
The tattooed giant chuckles darkly and glides the ice over my clit, and my body jumps of its own accord. Hot puffs of air blow over my peaked nipples and his fingers, still holding the ice between them, plunge into my hot sex, curling over that sweet spot. My brain shorts. Just completely evaporates. The opposing sensations are too much and not enough. With every stroke, I’m shoved towards the edge of oblivion and thank fuck, because I might implode if I don’t come soon.
A whispered chant promising pleasure if I give into the pain fills the space, as if the room is egging us on. Can he hear it too? My skin flares with goosebumps—my body’s so keyed up I can’t help but to go a little feral. The scent of my arousal coats the air between us, and fuck if I don’t love that.
“This pussy is mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to devour. Mine to wring pleasure and pain from.”
His movements turn harsher—fingers thrusting in and out of me with expert precision. When he releases my shoulder to push on my lower abdomen, I cry out, jerking against him. Every single one of my nerve endings are screaming with such intense pleasure that it borders on pain.
Am I dying? If so, what a way to go.
I can’t stop the tremor working its way up from my curled toes, chasing—or maybe running from—the release that’s barreling down on me. The room fades to a single focal point, the man leaning over me, ushering me to ruin. My breath stutters, the air vacuums from my lungs as the hardest orgasm I’ve ever experienced rocks through me like a damn freight train.
I pitch off the barrel, only saved from meeting the concrete floor by my tormentor, and scream until my vocal cords are raw. The walls echo with the incoherent tongues blasting out of me, and right when I think this is it, I’m going to pass out, he releases his hold on me and drags his fingers out of my undoubtedly abused sex.
Soft kisses land on my thighs, but I’ve not enough wherewithal to register it. Just a fleeting touch in a sea of listlessness.
“What was that?” I mumble when my brain starts to come back online.
“Have you never squirted before?”
“No. Definitely not. I thought I was dying. Am I dying? Shit, this wouldn’t be the worst place to die, but I want to see the ocean one more time. Take me to the ocean Mr. Tattooed Grumpy Pants.”
I know I’m rambling and I don’t care.
“How is every part of you so perfect?” he chuckles.
“You know, you’re gonna give a girl a complex if you keep calling her that.” My words are sluggish, thick and heavy on my tongue.
“I never use that word lightly. But when it fits, it fits.”
“Ice cream,” I mutter, too overwhelmed to address his comment.
“What’s that?”
“Me … I’m a puddle of melted ice cream. Can’t … no more,” I mumble incoherently as another tremor rolls through my body.
He chuckles darkly and runs his fingers up the inside of my thigh, using my arousal to draw patterns on my skin. “I’m nowhere near done with you, Bambi.”
I run my fingertip over her silky smooth skin, drawing random spirals over her thighs and lower abdomen, marveling at her body’s reaction to my touch. At the goosebumps that rise with each barely-there caress.
