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It wasn’t just good salsa that could get a girl’s saliva going.
She sampled the next salsa in the hollow of his throat. Gripping his jaw, she held his head tipped back, increasing the strain on his neck. Then she wrapped her fingers around his throat and dug her nails into it.
As expected, the hint of roughness arched him up to her, the muscles in his arms rippling. She shifted so one shin was over his thigh, pinning it down, her knee braced against his testicles as she lifted her head, licking the remains of the oil from her lips. His gaze followed the movement. He had unusual eyes, a darker blue than one usually saw in the spectrum of blue-eyed humans, and it was easy to get lost in them.
The first time she’d done so hadn’t even been at the club. It had been at his garage.
She’d had a stressful day. Work-related, plus some personal shit. She’d brought the Mustang in for a repair and he’d been going over the service order with her. Since it was a formality, both of them knowing what the car needed, she’d taken a moment to enjoy the color of those eyes, the authority and competence they reflected.
“Mistress?”
He never called her Mistress at the garage. However, that day, he’d apparently said her name and she hadn’t responded. With no one close to them, he’d spoken the one word, calling her back. Then he’d leaned in, spoken quietly.
“I’m yours to look at however long you want, if it helps improve your day. Looks like it’s been a shitty one.”
He was intuitive, often understanding so much. There was a give and take between Mistress and sub when it was done right, and he excelled at that closed circuitry.
A few days ago, she’d told him wallowing had its place in dealing with hearing loss. Coddling or rewarding too much, too soon, were the dangers for those who cared about him. But now she found herself overwhelmed with the desire to give him something for the effort it had taken him to come here, to not only leave his comfort zone, but then fucking excel at serving the Mistress who’d invited him.
As she considered what reward she might choose, she reached for the last salsa. The creamy white sauce had a touch of green from the cilantro lime seasoning. She covered his cockhead with it. Then she dipped her head and covered it with her mouth again.
There was a coolness to it, and she discovered her favorite of the sampler, forever bound to tasting it first on his rigid member. She sucked and swirled her tongue over him, absorbing the flavor, aware of the trembling of his strong thighs,the clench of the hands lying out to either side of him, the rise and fall of his chest.
He was really battling to hold onto that orgasm. She’d never made him work so hard for it. This session might become a new favorite memory, to go along with her new favorite salsa flavor. Sliding her hand up his chest, she tugged on the hair. When she ran her thumb over his nipple, flicked it with a nail, she earned a guttural oath. She moved to his navel, played there, then slid off his cock to nip at his testicles, teasing his frenulum with her tongue. An even harsher sound broke from his lips.
“Mistress…can’t…”
She lifted her head, mouth upon him, and his fevered gaze dwelled upon her. As she gave him a slow, teasing lick, she also gave him a reprimanding look. A question demanding an answer.
“Not without your permission, Mistress. But fuck, you’re making it hard.”
Good. When she finally allowed him to come, she wanted him lightheaded and unable to walk for at least a half hour. She looked forward to that, where she could care for him without offending his male pride. Where he’d be disoriented enough that he wouldn’t place such tending in unwise emotional territory.
He was on tenuous ground on a lot of things. She wouldn’t make it more unstable, change the slope to roll him toward too much dependence on anyone other than himself. But it was curious, how much she wanted to cosset him, protect him, help him. She’d expected warning signs of over dependence from him; knowing her own inclinations might add to that danger was unexpected.
But identifying the flags was enough to manage it. That thought helped her choose what she wanted to give him as a reward for tonight’s efforts.
She did one more deep suckle of his cock, going down on it as far as she could. Tiger had lengthandgirth to him, and she had a small mouth, something a man could enjoy, that tight, slick space sucking on his organ. She came off it with a slow slide, then sat back on her heels. The position arched her back so he would see her stiff nipples jutting against the thin bikini top. The curve of one ass cheek was exposed by the fabric riding high on it.
She took a breath. She didn’t want to fumble the phone. When she was done typing, she held it out so he could read it with an agitated gaze.
“If the choice was yours, how would you fuck your Mistress, Tiger? No thinking: first position that comes to mind.”
That startled him. However, other than the brief hitch to digest the demand, understand what she was asking, he responded as if it had been right there, no need to think it through. He might have fantasized about plenty of positions at other times—just as she had—but in this mood, he knew exactly what he wanted.
“From behind, Mistress.”
A succinct answer. When the male animal took over, choosing to toss his quarry face-first and ass-up over the nearest flat surface and drive into a wet cunt wasn’t a surprise. Yet with Tiger, she had a feeling it would become more than that.
Even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be a disappointment. She wouldn’t give him a gift that didn’t please them both, because he wouldn’t want that kind of gift. Her body was aching to have that big, impressive cock driving into her, feel all that strength dedicated to bringing them both to peak.
She stood, looking around to consider her options and the important variables. Like his height relative to hers.
She moved to the dining table, aware of his gaze upon her swinging, barely covered ass. The table was a sturdy rectangularbutcher block with bench seating on either side. She moved the delicate blue vase and its arrangement of yellow flowers to the kitchen counter. Propped the long cushion from one of the benches in the narrow spot between the table and the wall, a provocative message about why the buffer would be needed.
She retrieved a condom from the bag she’d moved to the sofa. Returning to the table, she placed it there. As she eased herself to her elbows at the end, she tossed strands of hair out of her eyes to look over her shoulder at him. Reaching back, she ran her fingertips over one edge of the bikini bottoms. They were already hiked up from her movements, but the gesture was a command.
Come and get it.
