“I don’t know,” I confessed.
Reaching the button on his jeans, I unfastened it, only fumbling a little as I slipped my right hand inside, rubbing my palm against his pulsating cock.
“Oh, fuck yeah.” He groaned.
I smiled against his back. “Do you like that?” I asked, just the way he always did with me.
“Hell yes.” He groaned again. “Grip it, Chantel. Take me in your hand.”
Not wanting to disappoint him, I unzipped his jeans and pushed my other hand inside, freeing him from the confinement of his denim.
Wrapping my palm around his hot cock, I stroked him slowly from base to tip. He flexed his hips and bucked forward, seeking the warm downward slide of my palm. Gliding my hand over his sensitive skin, I turned my face into his back and took another bite of his shoulder.
“Yes. Again.”
Removing my hand from him, I told him softly, “Make it wet.”
“Huh?” he grunted.
I took great delight in the confusion I heard in that single distracted noise. Bringing my hand up to where he could see it, I told him again, “Make it wet, Phillipe.”
This time, he seemed to get my meaning. He moved to the left, and the next thing I felt was his hand clasping mine with cool liquid. Somehow, I knew it was paint.
“What color?” I asked.
“Are you fucking serious?” he asked, moving my hand back to his impatient cock. He wrapped our fingers around him ashe punched his hips forward on a tormented growl, letting his head fall back.
“What color, Phillipe?”
“Red. Fiery fucking red.”
“Perfect,” I purred against his trembling back as I resumed my slow torment.
Over and over, I stroked him. Each delicious tug of his stiff member pulled a strained groan from deep inside his chest as his hot palm assisted my movements.
“So fucking good.” He cursed as he thrust forward into our palms. His flesh was burning hot, rubbing against my hand hard. “Bite me again, just like before,” he demanded.
I smiled against him, teasing him, nibbling softly. “Like this?” I reached up with my free hand, stroking his abdominal muscles, which were straining with each controlling motion of those powerful hips.
“No,” he forced out.
“No?”
“Chantel…” he told me in warning.
I ran my hand up to his nipple while I rubbed my own against his back. His breathing hitched as he grunted in a voice so husky and deep that I could swear he must have stroked my pussy, because it contracted and moistened.
“Put your fucking teeth on me, Chantel.”
How could I resist that? I couldn’t, and I didn’t.
Instead, I bit him hard, harder than I would have expected, as I stroked and squeezed his cock as fast and rough as I could. It must have been what he was waiting for, because he gripped my hand as I felt his big body twitch and shudder while he groaned my name.
Snapping the journal shut, I place it on the bed beside me, annoyed and frustrated. Every word I read from her pulls me deeper into their relationship. The more I read, the more I find myself craving the knowledge. What is it about them that I find so intriguing? Is it the fact that I am reading something so very private?I feel as though I am violating their love in some way, yet I can’t help myself from wanting to know more. No, Ineedto know more.
Sliding down the bed, I rest my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling, remembering the image of Phillipe as I saw him only a few days ago. Naked, hard, and stroking himself so violently that I thought he must have been hurting himself. What did he tell her?Put your fucking teeth on me.
Fucking hell, that was so damn sexy.
