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He saunters back to my gaping thighs like it was home to him. With the bar still attached to my ankles, preventing my legs from closing—not even narrowing an inch—he effortlessly slides his tongue between the lips of my sex.
“God!” The lapping feels incredible on my clit, especially with the vibration of his moan against my flesh.
After our last conversation, being this turned on feels like a violation of his trust. The realization that I won’t ever make his wish come true should’ve been enough for me to stop him and confess my deficiency. Not to mention the Grim Reaper lurking behind me.
But this is Clayton Hartley. Like a wizard, he abolishes the negative vibes off me. He’s licking my worries away, and my brain knows no better than my pussy. My cognitive ability has been short-circuited under the flood of his determination to please me.
He goes in deeper, and my legs start to kick around. I’m well aware of the consequences, but against Clayton’s tongue, I have no hope.
Cruelly, he stops.
Before words of complaint leave my mouth, he takes off his underwear.
I growl like a wounded bear. Look at that magnificent flesh!
I’m a woman who doesn’t put sex and physical beauty above all else. But shamefully, this morning, I don’t give a damn about his eyes or his heart. His cock is what I want, and he’s got plenty of it.
And he knows. He rubs it, shakes it, manipulates it.
“You said you wanted to watch, baby?” He stands tall, putting himself on display with no sign of restraint. “Then watch!”
Seeing a bondage scene in a movie is one thing. But living it with my man. who’s no actor and whose assets no other men have, my frustration comes to a boil.
“Clayton…” I beg, writhing, squalling for him to come to me. The bar extends again, imposing more torture on my legs.
“Clayton, please!” I need to fucking feel him!
He keeps masturbating his massive shaft as if he can make it even harder. He moves in, presenting it awfully close to my pussy, only to withdraw.
I gyrate in protest—God, it hurts! The strains on my inner thighs, and the tightness of my ankles, are making me sweat like I’m being roasted alive.
Finally, he strides to my side. Passing the swaying flames on the candles, I can see the tip of his cock gleaming, covered in precum.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he groans.
“Please… I want you.”
Surprisingly, he gives himself to me—to my mouth. He brushes his wet tip against my lips, which I’m only too happy to taste.
“You want this?”
“Haven’t I made myself clear?”
“I just want to hear it one more time, baby.”
My restraints fail to contain my hunger.
“I want you!” I stretch my neck to reach him, then lick the delectable tip of his manhood, giving him no choice but to plunge his erection inside my mouth.
Blow jobs have been in my bad book because the man I was with never cared about his woman. Everything was all about him, for him.
But not this man. Not Clayton.
After all, I do care about his heart. Pleasing him is a privilege, and so is being pleased by him.
I work my mouth to the base of his shaft, greedy for his flesh. My hastiness doesn’t help. The bar has stretched me so wide I can barely keep up. But nothing—nothing—will stop me from enjoying him.
“God, Isabelle…” His impressive wingspan effortlessly reaches between my legs, and soon his thumb finds my clit.
