“You don’t want to know how often I think about this,” he murmurs, kicking off his pants and lowering himself over me, nestling his mouth between my breasts. He kisses and licks, a hand coming up to pinch my nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, his teeth grazing the other.
I lift from the bed like a woman possessed and feel him smile against me. For what feels like hours, he busies himself there, sucking, biting, pinching, and palming, until I’m shaking with need and impossibly slick.
Before him, I’d never really thought about my chest as a vital part of the process. Of course, guys loved to grab at them and compliment them, but it never really did a lot forme.
But now, with Russell’s devotion, his obsession with my breasts, the way his eyes always stray to my nipples, it makes me squirm with a self-awareness. Like his appreciation for my bodybrings me back into it, forcing me to feel every touch—tits or otherwise.
“Fu-uck,” he growls, dragging his chin down the center of my belly so his beard scrapes at the skin there, sending a shudder up the length of my back.
I press my hips desperately against his, lifting up and into him, asking for more without even opening my mouth.
Hand around his cock, Russell rests back on his heels between my legs, raking his gaze over me. Slowly, he pumps his hand up and down the shaft, and I’m spread out before him, needy and wet. I stare at the hand on his cock, wishing it was mine instead. Wishing it was my mouth. Promising to myself that next time, it will be.
Taking his time, he runs the tip of his finger up over my calf, under my knee, down the side of my thigh. He’s the cartographer, and I’m uncharted land.
I’m also, apparently, incapable of describing what’s happening between us without resorting to clichés. But ninety percent of my brain is flooded with the sight, scent, touch, and sound of him, so there’s no room for soliloquizing.
This is nothing like what happened in that hotel room. Nothing like the frenetic, almost desperate way we’d gasped at each other, touching and tasting as much as we could. Nothing like the way he’d bent me over the bed, taking me until I could hardly breathe. Nothing like the way I’d ridden him, desperately, unabashedly, my knees digging into the mattress, my head thrown back with pleasure.
Now, time stretches out, slow and sweet, around us.
Russell ghosts his fingers over my skin, following every touch with his gaze. I shake under the non-weight of it, wishing for contact, wishing for his cock already. I pulse for it, and he knows it. His hand never moves faster than a slow clip, hiscock straining at attention so hard it’s impossible for me to look anywhere else.
Finally,finally, that gaze lands on my core and focuses there. With his free hand, he grabs the inside of my thigh, forcing my legs open, his hand so close to where I want him that I let out an involuntary, slow whine. I force my gaze up to the ceiling at the heat in his eyes, the way he looks at me like he could swallow me right now.
Because it’s not all lust. There’s another element, selfish and possessive, that, if left unchecked, could easily slide into something else altogether.
“Touch yourself, baby,” Russell commands, and my hand is moving before my brain has even fully processed it. My fingers slide over my clit right where I want them, and I gasp, back arching, eyes rolling back, even as I wish it was Russell’s fingers, Russell’s everything. Even as I imagine that it is.
He strokes himself against the inside of my thigh, watching as I touch myself, and when our eyes lock again, I realize this is the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with another person, even though Russell himself has been balls-deep inside me.
This is more—watching each other. A full view of the other person’s pleasure. Different than the close-up pleasure of being wrapped together.
“You are not allowed to come yet,” Russell grunts out, his free hand slowing my hand when I start to gasp, feeling my orgasm on the horizon. I find his eyes again, confused, and desperate, and still doing my best to be quiet.
“What?” I rasp, blinking, aching and desperate for the relief I know will come if I can just keep moving my hand. “Why?”
Russell smiles, slow and lazy, and I realize that while I’ve just been following his orders, he’s been the line leader this entire time, guiding me along his pre-determined route.
“Because,” he says, self-indulgently, and I realize with a jump of adrenaline-filled anticipation, that he’s guiding himself to my entrance, “you’re going to come around my cock, sweetheart.”
When I open my mouth to cry out at the feeling of him pressing inside me—theimpossiblestretch, like finally moving when you’ve been cooped up for too long, lactic acid moving around in your muscles and providing the most addictive relief—Russell covers my mouth with his palm, muffling the sound.
Our gazes lock over his fingers, and he fucks me hard, but not fast, so the headboard doesn’t creak against the wall. I writhe under him, but he keeps me pinned to the bed, pulling my desire taut, marching me right up the incline of my orgasm with a steady beat. I feel like a dog on a leash, pulling and begging to go faster as my unrelenting owner insists on a cadence I can’t fathom.
But then, when we finally reach the top, the orgasm hits me so hard, so fully, that I feel it in the tips of my fingers, in the back of my head and soles of my feet. It flushes into my stomach and calves and the small of my back, my entire body pulsing with a pleasure that I’veneverexperienced before, and I wonder if it’s going to be like this every time.
How much further can Russell and I go, if each time is the best time? Will I eventually pass out from the pleasure?
Russell keeps the rhythm, burying his cock inside me, keeping the cadence with praise in my ear, saying I’m tight and sweet, that next time, he’s going to taste me. Going to get his cock in my mouth. Next time, he’s taking me back to his place and fucking me on every piece of furniture he owns.
I nod and nod and nod against his hand, tears running down my cheeks as he presses me down and into the mattress, giving me absolutely no space and acting as the most delicious anchor to the moment.
And at the very end of it, when he buries his face in my shoulder and thrusts one last time, I tangle my fingers in his hair, pull hard as he empties himself inside me.
Then I turn my head, and through the haze of pleasure and sleepiness, even in the dim light of my bedroom, I see it.
A mark, just behind his ear.
