Love in Lingerie
Page 34
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I do as he says, and a rough exhale falls out of him as I undo the front closure on my bra, my fingers taking the extra moment to push the lace away from my breasts, exposing myself to him.
“Shit,” he breathes, his eyes devouring the exposed skin. “God, Kate.” His voice breaks, and I look past the bob of his cock to watch the muscles in his throat flex. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I didn’t even … God, I’ve thought about this so much, and I was still wrong. With how perfect you are.” His eyes pinch shut and he lets out a long exhale, a shudder that ripples through his entire body. When he opens his eyes, his control is back, and he nods at my free hand. “Give me your hand. Up here, with the other.”
I move my hand up, his wrapping around both of my wrists and pinning them to the rug, a change in position that arches my back off of the floor. His eyes dart once to my breasts, then he is kneeling over me, his other hand flat on the rug, keeping the pressure off my wrists, and I watch as the head of him moves before me. “Keep still and open that mouth, Kate.”
I do, and he shifts, my eyes closing as he lines himself up, then the tip of him is between my lips, softly pushing, my tongue coming out to meet him, the gentle press of his hips pushing him deeper into my mouth. He moves slowly, a gentle dip in and out, his thickness not allowing too much depth, my efforts to take him bringing soft words of encouragement from his voice.
His movements get a little rougher, and there is a catch in his voice when he speaks again. “I used to fist my dick and think about you on your knees, your boyfriend back at the table, you apologizing to me with this perfect mouth. I thought about punishing you with my cock, making you gag on my dick, pushing it deeper, and coming down your throat. I wanted to send you back to him with the taste of me on your tongue, with your pussy wet. I imagined so many fucking dirty things, so many ways that I would punish you. You drove me mad, Kate.”
He pulls his hips away, jerking out of my mouth, and I gasp for breath, my thighs twisting together, the need between them too great. My orgasm from his mouth seems hours ago, and I need something, anything, to rub against, to penetrate. “Please,” I beg. “Fuck me.”
He chuckles, and pushes off the rug, releasing my hands and sitting up above me, my saliva dripping off him, and his eyes flare with arousal as he takes a moment to drag the head of him over my lips. “You are going to be the death of me.”
I lift my upper body, and my breasts brush against his ass, his knees still on either side of my shoulders. “Fuck me,” I demand.
His smile grows wider. “Are you sure you want that? For me to well and truly fuck you?”
I recognize a Trey Marks challenge when I hear one. In three years, there have been many. Most, I have approached with a cautious hand. This one, I grab by the fucking balls. Or rather, by the shaft. I grip my hand around him and squeeze, and the shock of it all is still there. I am touching Trey’s cock.
He gives one short thrust against my palm, then jerks to his feet, holding out a hand and helping me up. “Put your knees on the couch, hands on the back of it.” The words are hard and business-like, the kind that don’t allow for discussion, and I scramble, my skin hot from the fire, the leather cool as it yields to the pressure of my knees, my hands gripping the back cushion. I hear the slide and collide of metal, and turn to see Trey, bare-assed in front of the windows, raising and locking them into place, a cool breeze immediately entering the room and fighting with the warmth from the fire. “Not there,” he snaps, pointing to the end of the sectional, the one closest to the fire. “Here.”
I move closer, and when I get back on my knees and tilt forward, I look over my shoulder at him. He’s a dark silhouette before the fire, an outline of raw sexuality, of strong arms and hips, of hard ass and abs. He strokes himself and comes forward, and there is a moment of reverence when his hands close over each of my ass cheeks. “Are you holding on to the couch?” he asks.
“Yes.” God, I want this. I want him to be raw and rough. He shoves inside of me, and it’s an invasion. There are no slow and controlled strokes, no gentle draws to allow my body to adjust. This is straight fucking, and it is exactly how I’d always pictured Trey would do it—wild and furious, the bite of his fingernails into my skin, the slam of his thick cock in and out, the grunt of him, the slap of our thighs, the moment when he reaches forward, his hands jerking at the bra that still hangs from my shoulders. “Keep your hands on the couch,” he grits out, and he grips one of my shoulders, using it for leverage, as if I am a wild stallion that he is taming. It takes only seconds for me to come, for the last twenty minutes of teasing to erupt into one overwhelming shatter of senses. I claw at the leather, I scream his name, and when my entire body tenses, it is a rolling, tumbling fall of ecstasy that doesn’t stop, the animalistic sounds coming from him, the continual mad thrusts of his body, the jerk of the lace, the assault of cock and balls against and inside of me … I scream over and over, and if this is a Trey Marks orgasm, I am ruined for life. I cannot, will not, ever find this again. I cannot, will not, ever experience this again. There is no way that a body can feel this good, can come apart this completely, and survive. I hover in some plane, some beautiful place where it doesn’t end, where he and I are fully connected, every line of our bodies intact. When I come back to life, it is with a shudder, my arms falling from the couch, my body pitching forward, and when my cheek hits the couch, I open my eyes.
Fire glowing, its shape blurry, my eyes tearing. Cool air against my skin, yet I’m warm everywhere, his body thrusting, the slap of us together like a chant in the room. He is saying something, something about me, something about love and fucking and how I feel. He is sliding his hands down my arms, pulling my wrists together at the small of my back, and then they are being bound by his grip, a tight hold while he continues, while he thrusts and pulls, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, so warm, so oblivious to everything but the moment where we connect, the thick feel of him inside of me, the fill and then empty, perfection and then need. He moves me to the side, where my head has more room against the seat of the couch, and I feel everything shift as he climbs onto the leather, my ass up in the air, hands still held behind my back. He pushes back inside and the feeling is different, the angle new, the pleasure a twisted blend of something else, and any coherent thought is gone as he leans forward, one hand playing over my nipples. These thrusts are slower, deeper, more intense. He squeezes my breasts and I tell him he is a god. He pulls on them gently, rubs his fingers over their curves and he tells me how much he loves me.
Then, his hands release my wrists and the pace picks up.
At some point, I am against the last window, the tall pane of glass that doesn’t open, my bare breasts against the cold surface, my cheek pressed to it, his hand knotted in my hair, holding me in place. The other is at my hip, and he moves fluidly and perfectly, not all of the way in, just little notches of pleasure that drive me to another orgasm, one where my legs collapse and he carries me to the floor, lying me on my back.
“I’m going to come,” he pants out, almost apologetically, as if his performance is weak, and this is his third thrust, and he just can’t control himself. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside of me.”
“Fuck, I’m glad you said that.” His tempo increases, and when he comes, he says my name in a way that is almost a prayer, his breaths ragged, his eyes on me. When he gives a final shuddering push, I wrap my arms around him and whisper out everything I’ve never said. How much I love him. How much I’ve needed him. How much, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, for our entire friendship, I’ve wanted him.
He falls onto the rug and pulls me on top of him. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. Tell me this is forever.”
“It is.” I lift my head off his chest and look into his eyes. Inside, a part of me worries. Inside, a part of me is terrified. But when I look into his eyes, when I see the man I know, it all goes away.
There are few things I know in life. But I know that look in his eyes. I know when he is committed to something, when he is making a promise that he will fight with every bit of his soul to keep. He has that look when it comes to his company, the one he’s risking for us. And this look is even stronger. This look is one dipped in love.
“Shit,” he breathes, his eyes devouring the exposed skin. “God, Kate.” His voice breaks, and I look past the bob of his cock to watch the muscles in his throat flex. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I didn’t even … God, I’ve thought about this so much, and I was still wrong. With how perfect you are.” His eyes pinch shut and he lets out a long exhale, a shudder that ripples through his entire body. When he opens his eyes, his control is back, and he nods at my free hand. “Give me your hand. Up here, with the other.”
I move my hand up, his wrapping around both of my wrists and pinning them to the rug, a change in position that arches my back off of the floor. His eyes dart once to my breasts, then he is kneeling over me, his other hand flat on the rug, keeping the pressure off my wrists, and I watch as the head of him moves before me. “Keep still and open that mouth, Kate.”
I do, and he shifts, my eyes closing as he lines himself up, then the tip of him is between my lips, softly pushing, my tongue coming out to meet him, the gentle press of his hips pushing him deeper into my mouth. He moves slowly, a gentle dip in and out, his thickness not allowing too much depth, my efforts to take him bringing soft words of encouragement from his voice.
His movements get a little rougher, and there is a catch in his voice when he speaks again. “I used to fist my dick and think about you on your knees, your boyfriend back at the table, you apologizing to me with this perfect mouth. I thought about punishing you with my cock, making you gag on my dick, pushing it deeper, and coming down your throat. I wanted to send you back to him with the taste of me on your tongue, with your pussy wet. I imagined so many fucking dirty things, so many ways that I would punish you. You drove me mad, Kate.”
He pulls his hips away, jerking out of my mouth, and I gasp for breath, my thighs twisting together, the need between them too great. My orgasm from his mouth seems hours ago, and I need something, anything, to rub against, to penetrate. “Please,” I beg. “Fuck me.”
He chuckles, and pushes off the rug, releasing my hands and sitting up above me, my saliva dripping off him, and his eyes flare with arousal as he takes a moment to drag the head of him over my lips. “You are going to be the death of me.”
I lift my upper body, and my breasts brush against his ass, his knees still on either side of my shoulders. “Fuck me,” I demand.
His smile grows wider. “Are you sure you want that? For me to well and truly fuck you?”
I recognize a Trey Marks challenge when I hear one. In three years, there have been many. Most, I have approached with a cautious hand. This one, I grab by the fucking balls. Or rather, by the shaft. I grip my hand around him and squeeze, and the shock of it all is still there. I am touching Trey’s cock.
He gives one short thrust against my palm, then jerks to his feet, holding out a hand and helping me up. “Put your knees on the couch, hands on the back of it.” The words are hard and business-like, the kind that don’t allow for discussion, and I scramble, my skin hot from the fire, the leather cool as it yields to the pressure of my knees, my hands gripping the back cushion. I hear the slide and collide of metal, and turn to see Trey, bare-assed in front of the windows, raising and locking them into place, a cool breeze immediately entering the room and fighting with the warmth from the fire. “Not there,” he snaps, pointing to the end of the sectional, the one closest to the fire. “Here.”
I move closer, and when I get back on my knees and tilt forward, I look over my shoulder at him. He’s a dark silhouette before the fire, an outline of raw sexuality, of strong arms and hips, of hard ass and abs. He strokes himself and comes forward, and there is a moment of reverence when his hands close over each of my ass cheeks. “Are you holding on to the couch?” he asks.
“Yes.” God, I want this. I want him to be raw and rough. He shoves inside of me, and it’s an invasion. There are no slow and controlled strokes, no gentle draws to allow my body to adjust. This is straight fucking, and it is exactly how I’d always pictured Trey would do it—wild and furious, the bite of his fingernails into my skin, the slam of his thick cock in and out, the grunt of him, the slap of our thighs, the moment when he reaches forward, his hands jerking at the bra that still hangs from my shoulders. “Keep your hands on the couch,” he grits out, and he grips one of my shoulders, using it for leverage, as if I am a wild stallion that he is taming. It takes only seconds for me to come, for the last twenty minutes of teasing to erupt into one overwhelming shatter of senses. I claw at the leather, I scream his name, and when my entire body tenses, it is a rolling, tumbling fall of ecstasy that doesn’t stop, the animalistic sounds coming from him, the continual mad thrusts of his body, the jerk of the lace, the assault of cock and balls against and inside of me … I scream over and over, and if this is a Trey Marks orgasm, I am ruined for life. I cannot, will not, ever find this again. I cannot, will not, ever experience this again. There is no way that a body can feel this good, can come apart this completely, and survive. I hover in some plane, some beautiful place where it doesn’t end, where he and I are fully connected, every line of our bodies intact. When I come back to life, it is with a shudder, my arms falling from the couch, my body pitching forward, and when my cheek hits the couch, I open my eyes.
Fire glowing, its shape blurry, my eyes tearing. Cool air against my skin, yet I’m warm everywhere, his body thrusting, the slap of us together like a chant in the room. He is saying something, something about me, something about love and fucking and how I feel. He is sliding his hands down my arms, pulling my wrists together at the small of my back, and then they are being bound by his grip, a tight hold while he continues, while he thrusts and pulls, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, so warm, so oblivious to everything but the moment where we connect, the thick feel of him inside of me, the fill and then empty, perfection and then need. He moves me to the side, where my head has more room against the seat of the couch, and I feel everything shift as he climbs onto the leather, my ass up in the air, hands still held behind my back. He pushes back inside and the feeling is different, the angle new, the pleasure a twisted blend of something else, and any coherent thought is gone as he leans forward, one hand playing over my nipples. These thrusts are slower, deeper, more intense. He squeezes my breasts and I tell him he is a god. He pulls on them gently, rubs his fingers over their curves and he tells me how much he loves me.
Then, his hands release my wrists and the pace picks up.
At some point, I am against the last window, the tall pane of glass that doesn’t open, my bare breasts against the cold surface, my cheek pressed to it, his hand knotted in my hair, holding me in place. The other is at my hip, and he moves fluidly and perfectly, not all of the way in, just little notches of pleasure that drive me to another orgasm, one where my legs collapse and he carries me to the floor, lying me on my back.
“I’m going to come,” he pants out, almost apologetically, as if his performance is weak, and this is his third thrust, and he just can’t control himself. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside of me.”
“Fuck, I’m glad you said that.” His tempo increases, and when he comes, he says my name in a way that is almost a prayer, his breaths ragged, his eyes on me. When he gives a final shuddering push, I wrap my arms around him and whisper out everything I’ve never said. How much I love him. How much I’ve needed him. How much, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, for our entire friendship, I’ve wanted him.
He falls onto the rug and pulls me on top of him. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. Tell me this is forever.”
“It is.” I lift my head off his chest and look into his eyes. Inside, a part of me worries. Inside, a part of me is terrified. But when I look into his eyes, when I see the man I know, it all goes away.
There are few things I know in life. But I know that look in his eyes. I know when he is committed to something, when he is making a promise that he will fight with every bit of his soul to keep. He has that look when it comes to his company, the one he’s risking for us. And this look is even stronger. This look is one dipped in love.
