He doesn't tease. Doesn't circle or explore. He seals his lips over my clit and sucks, hard, and the pleasure is so intense I nearly come off the bed. My hands fly to his head, grabbing fistfuls of his short hair as his tongue circles my clit.
“Oh my god?—”
He groans against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. His tongue is relentless, flicking and stroking while his hands hold my hips pinned to the mattress. I'm writhing, gasping, making sounds I've never made before.
“I’m going to come…”
He pulls back. I whimper at the loss.
"Not yet." His voice is rough, wrecked. "I want to feel you come around me."
Before I can protest, he's standing, shoving his jeans and boxers down in one motion. My eyes go wide. His cock springs free, thick and hard and even bigger than I expected. Which is saying something, because I expected big.
He grins. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger and carefree. I want to see that grin every day for the rest of my life.
“We're not done yet.” He pulls a condom from the nightstand drawer and rolls it on, then settles back between my thighs. His cock nudges my entrance, hot and insistent, and I hold my breath.
He doesn't ask if I'm ready. He watches my face instead, reading every flicker of expression as he eases forward. The stretch is intense, just on the edge of too much, but he moves slowly, giving my body time to adjust.
When he's fully inside me, we both go still.
“Fuck.” The word comes out like a rasp. His arms are braced on either side of my head, muscles trembling. “You’re so tight and wet...”
I shift my hips experimentally, and we both groan. He pulls back, then pushes in again, a slow, deep stroke that lights up every nerve in my body. I moan and grab his shoulders, nails digging in.
“Harder.”
He makes a rough sound in his throat and picks up the pace. Each thrust drives deeper, hits something inside me that makes my vision blur. I'm gasping, clinging to him, my legs wrapped around his waist.
“That's it.” His voice is like a growl. “Take all of me.”
“Yes,” I gasp.
He growls and flips us, pulling me on top without slipping out. I brace my hands on his chest and stare down at him, overwhelmed.
“Ride me,” he orders.
I start to move. It's clumsy at first, I've never been great at being on top, but he grips my hips and guides me, sets the rhythm, shows me exactly how he wants it. The angle is different, deeper, and every stroke drags against a spot inside me that makes me moan.
“Touch yourself,” he says. “I want to watch you come.”
My hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit. I'm so sensitive from before that it only takes a few circles before I'm trembling on the edge.
His grip tightens on my hips. “Let me feel you come.”
I come hard, clenching around him, gasping his name. He thrusts up harder and faster, making my breasts jiggle, then he's coming too, groaning my name, pulling me down against his chest.
We stay wrapped together, sweaty and breathless. His heart pounds against my cheek. His hands stroke up and down my spine.
Later, I’m still buzzing. He's traced every curve of my body with his hands and mouth. He's made me come three more times. And now he's holding me against his chest, stroking my hair and pressing soft kisses to my forehead.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he says,
“I'm not thinking. I'm basking.”
“Basking?”
“In the afterglow.”
