“No games.”
I took her into my mouth. She was as sweet as I remembered. Her body collided with mine. As if I was her favorite tree, she began to climb me. I placed both hands underneath her, deepening our connection.
She was soft. Supple. So fucking sweet.
I ran my tongue across her mouth, sure to touch every surface. I was leaving my mark. But, simultaneously, I was learning parts of her with every part of me. My senses were active. Every one of them.
Royce accepted her fate. Her ability to do so revealed another layer to her. One I wanted to peel back with time. With care. With caution. With my bare hands. Or tongue. Or dick. They were all hers to have.
As a classic iconoclast, her submission was invigorating. Opposition was comforting. Disagreeing. Disobeying. Royce was rebellious by nature. That very nature kept her employed. She wasn’t afraid to do or say what others were. She fought for sport. Taking on big names, brands, and companies didn’t intimidate her.
It stimulated her. Aroused her. Kept her hands and her head busy, because deep down inside, she’d rather be in the boardroom than the bedroom alone. Solitude was not her safe space. Companionship was.
The cool countertop pressed against the back of my hand as I lowered Royce’s body onto the custom marble slab. My insatiable appetite determined each movement of my spine. I wasn’t in control of my limbs. Hunger was.
The soft fabric trailed up Royce’s skin under the influence of my fingertips. Her perfectly smooth seventh layer was riddled with small bumps. Her pantiless, hairless pussy appeared from underneath the threads.
So pretty, my baby.
I slid a bartop chair backward and planted myself on the beige fabric. With ease, Royce’s legs parted. A rich, rosy pink connected to the darkness of her thick lips. Her pearl was swollen, confirmation of her sexual inclination.
The contrasting, partially translucent cream seeped from her center. Royce was demanding so much without saying a fucking thing. My tongue ran across my lips as I prepared to grace the meal in front of me.
I drove two fingers inside of her wetness. Royce’s body lifted from the counter.
“Dear God, keep me from killing a nigga ‘bout my shit,” I whispered.
“Issssssshhhhhm–”
“Help my baby understand that I’m not the nigga to play silly games with.”
“Uhhhhh.”
“Her search ends here. I’m everything she needs and if I’m not yet, I’ll become whatever she’s missing.”
“Uh– Fuuu–”
“Amen.”
I placed my mouth on her most sensitive parts. Her legs drew inward, attempting to join. I removed my fingers and sat back in the chair. Royce’s chest rose and fell as she tried catching the breaths that were running away from her.
“Please.”
“Open your legs, Royce.”
She obliged. Simultaneously, her right hand met her center. Jealousy crept up my spine.
“Don’t do that, Royce.”
“Ishmae–”
I observed as she disobeyed my order. Her fingers glided across her center. Disappointment subsided. It was swiftly replaced with curiosity. And calm. And fascination.
“Go ahead, my baby. Let me see.”
With my permission, Royce dipped her fingers into her slit.
Fuck.
