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I answer by backing into Mr. Big and arching my back. If I could twerk, I’d throw one of those in, but alas, that is a skill I’ve yet to master.
Still, Art gets the message. His next thrust is harder and faster. Then harder yet.
I ball the sheets in my fists again. A huge wave of pleasure is building in my core.
Art’s fingers dig into my flesh, his movements getting into allegro territory.
My breaths turn into gasping moans.
“Yes,” Art growls. “Come for me.” He speeds up his pace until he pistons into me so quickly there isn’t a ballet term for it.
Oh, fuck.
Here it is.
My orgasm makes landfall and I come, shouting Art’s name.
He groans and Mr. Big grows impossibly harder and bigger, sending seismic aftershocks through my oversensitive sex.
The moment I feel his release, Art pinches my clit and wrings another orgasm from me—one I scream into the pillow.
In the aftermath, I find myself manhandled once more, this time in order to be turned into the little spoon. Draping an arm over my ribcage, Art kisses my ear, murmuring tender, barely audible words of praise, and an unusual contentment envelops me, one that Zen monks might experience after a month of meditation… or after breaking their vow of celibacy.
Feeling warm and cared for, surrounded by Art’s tantalizing scent, I close my eyes and plummet into the best sleep of my life.
