“A little. Oh god, Saint.”
With every thrust I feel so full, my spine arches, my nails claw at the taut skin and muscle at his shoulders.
I’m between screams and pleas, laughter and tears. I don’t know what to think or say or do. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare. Powerful . . . his pull to me is undeniable. I’m scared out of my mind and at the same time I’m helpless to resist. I want more. I bite his neck. I claw at his back. Saint, Saint, Saint, I cry, thinking incoherently that nothing is enough, nothing until I get his every secret, every name of his lovers, his fears, his dreams, his heart, until he comes for me, in me.
My breasts bob between us, his body powerful and more precise as he prolongs every thrust. “And now?” Making me nod as he takes me higher and higher. His muscles bulge. His head ducks and he tastes the tips of my breasts again, tugging with his teeth, smoothing with his tongue.
The brief teasing we’ve enjoyed, the little playful flirting and foreplay, those were tentative questions, born of curiosity on both our parts. This is an avalanche of ravaging desire. He thrusts again, his mouth on mine, his body relentless, neither of us letting the other breathe, or think, or stop. I won’t last another minute. How can I have gone years without this?
“And now, Rachel?” he growls through his harsh breaths.
Arching upward, I sink my nails into the back of his neck. “Please, Saint,” I moan out.
He rubs my clitoris a little bit with the pad of his thumb, and my eyes shut in bliss as my orgasm thunders through me. My skin melts; I fly away, ecstasy ripping through me. I clutch myself to him and feel him groan in my hair as he comes, his body tensing and flexing powerfully against me.
After a few minutes of lying together, I’m obsessed. I’m addicted. I’m bewildered. I want to know how many girls he’s made out with. I want to rank as one of the best. I want to do it again. I want to touch his body. I want to let him do whatever he wants with mine. I want to stop breathing forever. “What do you like? Blow jobs? Making out . . . ? ” I whisper into his neck. “Teach me, Saint.”
“You know what I like?” he whispers huskily in my ear. “I’ll show you what I’d like to do right now.”
He’s a beautiful man, with a beautiful, muscled ass that makes my mouth water as he disappears into his spa-like bathroom. I sit up on the bed, studying his bedroom. I hadn’t really been paying attention before. It’s pretty minimalist—bare. Almost emotionless. Almost icy, like his eyes.
There are no photographs, not even of his mom or of his buddies. But there are pictures of race cars all over the room, old vintage Ferraris. I suppose to a guy who grows up with more toys than people, the toys become important somehow.
“You should get some sort of fancy fur-like coverlet for this bed,” I say, loud enough that he can hear me in the bathroom, I hope, shivering as I tug the sheet to my breasts. Things that make love to you.
Suddenly I look at him at the threshold and he just looks like a man who needs to be made love to often. Not because he’s sexy, because now that he’s made love to me, his energy is calmer, more subdued.
I like that lazy, half-lidded look he wears when he comes back out of the bathroom naked and grins when he sees me in bed with my hair falling down my shoulders and the rest of me pretty much naked under the covers.
“You felt good, Rachel,” he says, his eyes—god, my heart—his eyes look more thirsty than anything I’ve ever, ever seen.
I blush completely.
“I’d bet anything that you taste just as good too,” he says.
Oh, fuck, he doesn’t really mean . . .
He’s looking at my legs. I’m starting to melt under the sheets. His pupils are dark and liquid with a strange mix of tenderness and need, and his cock is . . . oh. “I . . . wouldn’t know, I’m not into being given . . . you know.”
He raises an eyebrow as he ventures forward, back to bed. Okay, I don’t want him to kick me out or anything, so I ease out from under the sheets, crawl down to the floor to get my panties, and slip them on as I nervously explain, “Not sure what it is about it, but I just couldn’t ever do it. I feel too exposed.”
He stops before me when I stand up, only to graze his thumb over my panties, up, down, around. “It’s not much different than me touching you like this. Except my tongue caresses you.”
“Why do you want it? Why do men like it?”
He chuckles and guides me back down on the bed. “You won’t need to ask me that when I’m through.” He tugs my panties down my legs, and I’m already so nervous about what I can tell he wants to do my lungs have already started to overwork.
With every thrust I feel so full, my spine arches, my nails claw at the taut skin and muscle at his shoulders.
I’m between screams and pleas, laughter and tears. I don’t know what to think or say or do. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare. Powerful . . . his pull to me is undeniable. I’m scared out of my mind and at the same time I’m helpless to resist. I want more. I bite his neck. I claw at his back. Saint, Saint, Saint, I cry, thinking incoherently that nothing is enough, nothing until I get his every secret, every name of his lovers, his fears, his dreams, his heart, until he comes for me, in me.
My breasts bob between us, his body powerful and more precise as he prolongs every thrust. “And now?” Making me nod as he takes me higher and higher. His muscles bulge. His head ducks and he tastes the tips of my breasts again, tugging with his teeth, smoothing with his tongue.
The brief teasing we’ve enjoyed, the little playful flirting and foreplay, those were tentative questions, born of curiosity on both our parts. This is an avalanche of ravaging desire. He thrusts again, his mouth on mine, his body relentless, neither of us letting the other breathe, or think, or stop. I won’t last another minute. How can I have gone years without this?
“And now, Rachel?” he growls through his harsh breaths.
Arching upward, I sink my nails into the back of his neck. “Please, Saint,” I moan out.
He rubs my clitoris a little bit with the pad of his thumb, and my eyes shut in bliss as my orgasm thunders through me. My skin melts; I fly away, ecstasy ripping through me. I clutch myself to him and feel him groan in my hair as he comes, his body tensing and flexing powerfully against me.
After a few minutes of lying together, I’m obsessed. I’m addicted. I’m bewildered. I want to know how many girls he’s made out with. I want to rank as one of the best. I want to do it again. I want to touch his body. I want to let him do whatever he wants with mine. I want to stop breathing forever. “What do you like? Blow jobs? Making out . . . ? ” I whisper into his neck. “Teach me, Saint.”
“You know what I like?” he whispers huskily in my ear. “I’ll show you what I’d like to do right now.”
He’s a beautiful man, with a beautiful, muscled ass that makes my mouth water as he disappears into his spa-like bathroom. I sit up on the bed, studying his bedroom. I hadn’t really been paying attention before. It’s pretty minimalist—bare. Almost emotionless. Almost icy, like his eyes.
There are no photographs, not even of his mom or of his buddies. But there are pictures of race cars all over the room, old vintage Ferraris. I suppose to a guy who grows up with more toys than people, the toys become important somehow.
“You should get some sort of fancy fur-like coverlet for this bed,” I say, loud enough that he can hear me in the bathroom, I hope, shivering as I tug the sheet to my breasts. Things that make love to you.
Suddenly I look at him at the threshold and he just looks like a man who needs to be made love to often. Not because he’s sexy, because now that he’s made love to me, his energy is calmer, more subdued.
I like that lazy, half-lidded look he wears when he comes back out of the bathroom naked and grins when he sees me in bed with my hair falling down my shoulders and the rest of me pretty much naked under the covers.
“You felt good, Rachel,” he says, his eyes—god, my heart—his eyes look more thirsty than anything I’ve ever, ever seen.
I blush completely.
“I’d bet anything that you taste just as good too,” he says.
Oh, fuck, he doesn’t really mean . . .
He’s looking at my legs. I’m starting to melt under the sheets. His pupils are dark and liquid with a strange mix of tenderness and need, and his cock is . . . oh. “I . . . wouldn’t know, I’m not into being given . . . you know.”
He raises an eyebrow as he ventures forward, back to bed. Okay, I don’t want him to kick me out or anything, so I ease out from under the sheets, crawl down to the floor to get my panties, and slip them on as I nervously explain, “Not sure what it is about it, but I just couldn’t ever do it. I feel too exposed.”
He stops before me when I stand up, only to graze his thumb over my panties, up, down, around. “It’s not much different than me touching you like this. Except my tongue caresses you.”
“Why do you want it? Why do men like it?”
He chuckles and guides me back down on the bed. “You won’t need to ask me that when I’m through.” He tugs my panties down my legs, and I’m already so nervous about what I can tell he wants to do my lungs have already started to overwork.
