Leo Richardson. Twenty-nine years old. A forward for the San Jose Grizzlies.
And a master at oral sex.
I gasp when he nips the inside of my thigh, my head flying up, my gaze connecting with his. “Pay attention,” he orders roughly, his brown eyes blazing as they pin me in place.
“Kind of hard to do when you’re blowing my mind, handsome,” I tease.
His smile—sweet baby Jesus—his smile. It has me halfway to another orgasm with just that flash of straight white teeth.
Two of which are fake, he told me as we shared a chocolate milkshake.
I don’t know which two, though.
And, as he drags his tongue up through my slick folds, teases my still sensitive clit, I don’t think I really care.
“Leo,” I gasp.
“Mmm,” he says against my flesh. “I like the way you say my name. Let’s see how it sounds when you’re coming.”
“I—”
But I don’t get to protest that I won’t be able to come again, that I’m more than happy with the one orgasm.
The man buries his face between my legs and…
Succeeds.
Oh, how he succeeds.
Then he’s slowly kissing his way up my body, hands trailing languidly over my skin. He kisses me, our tongues tangling, and suddenly I’m aching, empty.
I need this man inside me.
“Now,” I order softly.
That wolfish smile again, but he doesn’t protest as he strips off his clothes and comes back over the top of me. There’s a crinkle and a pause as he rolls on the condom, something that has me writhing in impatience.
But then he’s pushing inside and?—
“Leo,” I hiss as he stretches me wide.
“You can take it,” he murmurs, slowly pressing deep.
It aches so good, but he’s right.
I can take him—all of him.
And it’s positively delicious.
And somehow it gets even better when he starts moving, drawing back, stroking in. Slow and steady and inexorable. Until I’m used to him. Until I’m meeting his thrusts. Until he grips my thigh in one big, warm hand and does something absolutely sinful with his hips.
I gasp and feel it.
The impossible.
The legendary.
I’m going to come on this man’s giant cock, and it’s going to be glorious.
