It’s wet and messy and a fucking desperate kiss, something I never let myself feel, but that’s what she does to me. She strips me down to the most primitive version of myself. A version that isn't composed and in control. Not clinical and organized, looking for threats.
I’ve never felt anything close to this, and I don’t know how to deal with it, so I decide to stop trying and just roll with it.
When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. Her lips are swollen, her chest heaving, and between us, I can feel her rolling her hips against my cock. It’s bare, hard and wet for her, the condom discarded next to us.
Her pussy slides against my tip and we both watch when she rolls again, coating me in her slickness, going a little bit deeper.
“You’re close. Aren’t you?” I ask.
She manages a ragged breath. "Yes."
She rolls her hips again, this time the tip of me slipping further into her opening. We both freeze.
“Rhiannon," I groan. "You’re playing with fire.”
She only hums. “I haven’t had sex since that night.”
That makes me still. “What?”
She nods, lashes fluttering as she moves again, slow and teasing. She drops her hips down, leaving my tip empty and it takeseverything inside of me not to slide inside her. Not to take her bare the way that my fucked-up mind wants to when I know the risk.
“Haven’t wanted to.”
I stare at her, heat and disbelief tangling inside me. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Sharp cheekbones, slim nose, big, round hazel eyes, dark, thick hair that shines in even the dullest lighting, and curves so full I get hard just looking at her. Her chest is flushed, those lips swollen from me, and she’s telling me she hasn’t been touched by another man in months?
Not since me.
Something primal takes over at that. The idea that I was the last person to taste her, the last to be inside her—it’s fucking intoxicating. I like being in control. I like staking my claim. I love owning and possessing. But Rhiannon's one person I can't control. She's someone who isn't interested in more.
And perhaps that's what makes me want her so fucking badly. Maybe knowing I was the last to have her, has me thinking insane thoughts like maybe this could be more. Maybe she’ll stay the night and give me her phone number in the morning, and we can do this again.
My fingers slide down, parting her soft pussy, finding her clit and circling until I feel her thighs shake.
She keeps moving, and I know I should stop long enough to grab the condom, to be smart, butshit—she's perfect, and it feels too good. I don’t want to rush this. Don’t want to ruin the slow, simmering ache that’s building between us.
I kiss her lips again, slower this time. Less hunger, more meaning. Like I’m memorizing the taste of her, the sound of her breath softly against my mouth.
Her hands flatten on my chest, fingers tracing every ridge and muscle before dragging down my abs. Her nail scrapes over my stomach, light but sharp enough to make every muscle tense.
“Fuck,” I groan and lift up a little. “Do you want me coming on your stomach or what?”
She laughs softly. “No, but could you put your boxers back on first if you’re going to? I need to add some more to my collection.”
I shake my head, smirking. “You’re a sick fuck.”
She squeezes my cock in her fist, her smile playful. “You love it.”
"What did you do with them anyway?"
She laughs. "I sometimes sleep in them. They're soft."
I groan, imagining her sleeping in my cum soaked boxers for the past seven months.
"I know. I miss them."
She smiles, rolling her hips up against me as I hold my cock outright for her. Giving her something to rub her pussy against.
"What's lucky about them?" she asks.
