Hungry.
No thinking, just doing.
Touching. Stroking. Stripping.
She reaches under the waistband of my boxer briefs and strokes my cock. My hips flex into her touch.
Jesus.
Fuck.
Angel.
Heaven.
Torture.
I break free of the kiss with a gasp.
“Too much?” she whispers.
“More.”
She squeezes me and strokes harder and longer, balls to tip, rolling her fingers over the pre-cum leaking out of me, then circling my head with her thumb and stroking me again.
I bury my face in her neck, breathing through the desperate need to come.
Hold on.
Hold on.
Hold—fuck, her hands are magic.
“Wait,” I grunt.
“Sorry. Sorry, I?—”
“No sorry. Just—been a while. I don’t—I want?—”
“This?” she whispers, taking the strip of condoms from me.
“Yes.”
Foil rips, and then her hands are on me again, rolling the condom down my length.
“You weren’t kidding about that biological weapon thing,” she murmurs into my hair.
“Hashtag blessed,” I force out, which makes her laugh.
I love her laugh.
And I love that she’s laughing as she kisses me again, slower, softer kisses that gradually build to desperate, hungry kisses while she shifts beneath me.
My cock nestles between her thighs, oversensitive already, as she wraps her legs around my hips, tilts her pelvis just right, and my tip brushes against her pussy.
My balls tighten.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
