I’m…oh god, this is a different galaxy entirely. A whole sea of perfection. Creamy skin, lovely breasts, pert raspberry nipples.
I’m scared to move, to do something that will ruin the perfection of this moment, but Amalphia doesn’t have any such fears. She buries her fingers in my hair and tugs me forward, arching up so my lips land right on her breast.
“Do that thing with your tongue that you were just doing. Ahhh, yes. That’s it. That’s amazing. More. Please.”
I roll my tongue around her nipple, glorying in the sharp little puffs of air and even sharper cries she makes. She helps me, arching her back until I think it’s going to crack. It’s like she can’t get close enough.
She lifts my hand to her other breast and curls my finger around the heavy orb.
“I want you to eat my pussy like you’re my alien fridge, and I’m the snack that’s going to get tucked up inside you.”
The fact that this isn’t the most absurd thing I’ve heard tonight really proves how wildly I’ve been introduced to new ideas.
“Wait,” she amends, laughing. “I think I have that backward.”
I keep circling her nipple with my tongue and swirling the pad of my thumb around the other. “You’re not a fridge alien. You’ve always been the most beautiful soul. But as for uh…your request, I’d be happy to do that for you.”
She’s the one who yanks her pants down her thighs and tries to shimmy out of them. Given that she’s still straddling my lap, I have to help her. I don’t get my hands halfway up before she’s taking them and latching them onto her hips. She runs my palms over the gentle curve of her bottom. She stretches one leg out to the side, slips her pants off, and then shimmies out of the other pant leg with the grace of an acrobat. She’s now totally naked.
Totally. Naked.
My brain practically blows out the top of my skull at her smooth, creamy skin.
She sits back and lets me look. She swallows slowly, and then she locks her legs around my hips and does a crazy barrel roll that would have any martial arts student salivating jealously.
She doesn’t quite manage to get me flipped over or even a quarter of the way on her own. I know what she wants, and I roll with her, so I’m on top. Her hips rise up, chasing more, craving more, and I let her grind against me while I claim her mouth. My sweats do nothing to reshape the outline of my dick, and she finds it, grinding down the length of me until my balls are set to explode and my nipples are so hard that they practically turn themselves inside out.
“Is this okay?” she whimpers as she nibbles the corner of my lips.
“Okay is such a terrible word,” I growl. “It’s perfect.You’reperfect.”
That might sound cheesier than a cheese shop, but I mean it with far more than just my body. I mean it with my heart and soul too. Those were the parts of me Amalphia touched and saw before anything else. The hardest parts to get to, the ones I buried so deep, seemed to be the easiest for her to see, unearth, and hold in the palms of her hands like they were treasures.
The way she smiles up at me nearly makes me fall over. My arm muscles shake, making my tattoos jump around strangely.
“I love your ink,” she says, tilting her head to the side andlickinga path along my forearm.
My dick threatens to explode on the spot, kicking so hard in my sweats that the thing practically tears. Do you know what a feat that would be? These are good quality sweats. While I know most people think if you’re wearing them, you’ve given up on life, I like to wear soft, malleable, well-constructed workout clothing, and I choose them with care.
She kisses the spot where she just dragged her hot tongue, and then she looks up at me, her eyes sparkling, a soft, smirky smile playing at her lips that makes my balls turn into twin bowling balls.
“Can I take your shirt off?”
I arch up and pull it over my head as her eyes sweep over me with full longing. I let her drink her fill. All my tattoos are realistic. Mostly, they’re classic cars, but the one on my back is a ship and lighthouse deal because it just seemed so classic that I couldn’t not get it. I got them all from a world-class artist in New York City. I’ve turned just about every business trip there into a multitasking effort.
“Holy banana balls,” she wheezes. “My goodness, those are incredible.”
She grasps me around my hips with her knees and shimmies up so she can get her hands and lips on my shoulders, pecs, and chest.
I forget how to breathe, and when the air finally slams back into my lungs, my dick twitches so violently that Amalphia gasps and wriggles against me. She’s so hot that I can feel her burning through my sweats.
She kisses my pecs and sucks one of my nipples, rolling her tongue over the bud. My balls practically fly right into my throat like twin acrobats, which cuts off my oxygen again. My brain and my dick both protest in completely different ways.
She grasps my beard with both hands and drags my face down to hers. She kisses me and grinds against me in tandem until my dick is in serious danger of being so hard that it could do permanent damage. It’s making faces, and it’s going to get stuck like that—the age-old childhood adage. But with my cock. And probably my balls too.
Her nails dig so hard into my beard that I can feel them in my chin and neck. She eats my lips like I’m the snack and her alien fridge all combined together, and she whimpers and moans out syllables that sound like my name. I never was a fan of kissing until Amalphia. Her lips are better than anything in the world. Kissing her gets me even more excited and so rowdy that my brain sits up and begs like I’m going to program my robot dog to do. It’s not like I need any further stimulation, but the ferocity with which she’s going to town on my mouth generates all sorts of spontaneous images.
I want to bury my tongue in her pussy and lap up her sweetness. I want to spread her apart and eat her until she’s bellowing my name so loud that the walls shake.
