Next thing I know, he’s hooking his fingers into the elastic band of my cotton panties and sliding them down over my hips and thighs. Dutifully, I lift one foot then the other, so he can free me of my underwear, which he tucks into his pocket. His fingers spread my folds. His hot, wet mouth begins to lavish my center with tenderness and affection.
Throwing my head back, I pant as he works me, pressing his lips and darting his tongue in and out in a tantalizing caress. I’m climbing toward release when he stops suddenly.
“Noooo,” I protest.
“Just to clarify,” he says. “Technically, it’s still lips to lips, so…”
Before I can think of a quip, his mouth is back where I need it, his tongue hard at work. The evening stubble on his cheeks and chin abrades my sensitive skin, but I don’t mind. Quite the contrary, I welcome it. The contrast it offers with the slick, slippery friction happening between my folds only adds to my pleasure.
I hold myself open for him, freeing his hands to roammy body. And roam they do! Slipping under my cardigan, they knead my breasts through my dress and bra. His fingers rub my hardened nipples in time with the strokes of his tongue. Then they descend to the small of my back. He fills his palms with the flesh of my rump and gropes it, fingers splayed to his heart’s content.
The heat of his skin and the itch of his stubble all coalesce into a blistering, weakening surge that leaves me writhing. The pressure builds. My knees wobble. It’s only thanks to the wall and his firm hands that I’m still upright. I summon the last shreds of my willpower to not cry out when my release arrives.
“Wait, please, wait,” I moan, the sound muffled through the hand that I clamped over my mouth.
He lifts his blue eyes to me.
“I need a moment,” I say.
“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
I smile. “Just coming down from the sweetest peak. Feel like I’ll overheat if you keep going, and then crash.”
“Please don’t!” He hauls himself up to his feet.
My gaze zeroes in on the monumental bulge in his pants.
My turn to play!
Reaching down, I cup and stroke him through the cotton of his jeans, reveling in the thick hardness in my hand. He tips his head backward, gasping. I unbuckle his belt and undo his jeans. It’s tempting to pull them down, but I don’t want him to face more embarrassment than necessary if someone opens the door.
Next, I grip the waistband of his boxer briefs and peel them down to the top of his thighs, just underneath his firm male butt.
I nearly yelp with joy as his shaft springs out. My stomach flutters. I want him inside me so much!
Please, please, let him have a condom!
I stroke him into a panting mess, ridiculously satisfied that I can goad him into the same state he did to me.
Ha, serves him right!
But stroking him off won’t be enough for me. I’m starving; I’m desperate for him to fill me, to bring me relief.
“Protection?” I whisper.
He pulls a condom from the back pocket of his jeans.
My eyebrows lift. “You’re prepared for every eventuality.”
“Frankly, I didn’t expect this one to materialize. But I wanted it too badly to discard it.”
He tears the packet openand slips the condom on.
I can barely stand still. Anticipating what we’re going to do next, I pull the hem of my dress up and spread my legs to make room for him. He steps forward and takes my mouth in a blistering kiss while his rigid member is pressed between us, imprinting my flesh. As our tongues dance, I wrap my fingers snugly around it and stroke. He thrusts himself into my hand.
We’re so ready—we’re beyond ready.
Max reaches down, adjusting his shaft between my thighs to find a suitable position. The room is so narrow that he can push me up against the wall, lifting me from the ground, and I can brace myself against the opposite wall. He grips my backside and guides himself into me.
