When I finally come down, shaking and languid, he’s still there. Still kissing my inner thighs, licking my sexual juices off my skin. Still worshipping me like I’m sacred.
“One more,” he says.
“I can’t.” My voice is wrecked. “Marco, I can’t.”
“You can.” His thumb finds my soaking wet clit. Circles slowly. “Trust me.”
I do trust him. That’s the terrifying part.
So I let him build me up again. Slower this time. Gentler. His mouth and hands working together to coax another orgasm out of my exhausted body.
This one is softer. Rolls through me like a wave instead of crashing. But it’s no less devastating. I squirt again, less now, but still enough to cover his face in my juices.
Underneath him I’m sheer liquid. Completely and utterly his.
And then I hear it. His breath catching. A low groan that sounds pained.
I force my eyes open. Look down.
He’s still between my legs but his free hand is at his own waistband. Fumbling with his belt. Getting his jeans open.
“Marco?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Can’t.” He sounds wrecked. “Can’t wait. Fuck, Jess.”
He pulls his cock free. Already hard and leaking a steady stream of pre-cum. He reaches for it, as if intending to ebb the flow, but then he’s cumming. Right there between my legs. Hot strings land on my thighs, my stomach, mixing with the wetness already there.
Oh.
Oh fuck that’s hot.
Watching him lose control. Watching him cum just from tasting me.
It’s the single hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed fucking witnessed.
I feel my own pussy clenching multiple times in want. A mini-orgasm.
When he’s done, breathing hard, he looks up atme with glazed eyes. His cock is still rock hard and pulsing and straining like nothing even happened.
“Sorry,” he pants. “I didn’t mean to. You just. Fuck.”
I’m staring at the mess on my skin. His cum mixing with my wetness. Glistening in the firelight.
And suddenly I’m thinking about that night in his bathroom. When he ate my pussy after I peed. When he proved to me that squirting was different. When he made me feel so safe and cherished and seen.
Turnabout is fair play.
I drag my fingers through the cum on my stomach. Bring them to my mouth.
His eyes go wide.
I lick my fingers clean. Taste him. Salt and something darker.
“Jess.” My name, half growl, sounds like a prayer on his lips. Or a warning. A sound that splits the air halfway between reverence and ruin.
My gaze drops, drawn to his rigid cock. It looks harder than ever. Thick and straining, a vein pulses down its length like a live wire, the skin stretched taut, begging for touch.
I don’t stop. I run my hands through the mess on my thighs. Rub his cum into my skin. Spread it around like lotion. Lick my fingers like I’m tasting sweet dessert.
