His tongue is flat against my clit, and he’s working me with a patience that makes my vision blur.
My fingers dig into his hair. Black strands tangled between my knuckles, and I’m gripping hard enough to pull, and every time I tug, his tongue presses harder.
He adds a finger. One, pushing inside me while his tongue flicks my clit, and my hips buck against his face. He growls, a vibration against my skin that shoots straight through me.
I push my center against his face, seeking more friction, and he adds a second finger, curling them, finding the spot that makes my thighs clamp around his head.
“Saber. Oh my god. I’m?—”
He doesn’t ease up. He pushes harder. His fingers curl inside me while his tongue glides over my clit, and the pressure builds at the base of my spine, climbing, climbing, a coil winding so tight my body shakes with it.
It breaks.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves.
Not gentle. Not gradual. A full-body sensation that locks my spine and rips the air from my lungs.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His name, maybe. Or nothing. My fingers are white-knuckled in his hair, and my leg is shaking on his shoulder, and he doesn’t stop. He works me through it, his mouth relentless, until I’m gasping and pulling at his hair, because it’s too much.
He pulls back. Presses his forehead against my hip bone. Both of us breathing hard.
Then he stands.
He rises in one fluid motion, kissing me hard before I can catch my breath. I taste myself on his lips and the filthiness of it, the rawness, makes my hips roll against him. His hands grip my waist, and he lifts me.
My legs wrap around him. His back muscles bunch under my hands. He pins me against the hard surface, and his hips press between my thighs, and the rough denim of his jeans drags against where I’m swollen and slick.
“I need you inside me.” I say it against his mouth, and his entire body tightens.
He shifts me higher with one arm. His other hand drops between us. The sound of his belt, the zipper, and then he’s free, and the head of his cock drags through my wetness.
We both stop breathing.
He pushes in.
Slow. One inch, then another, stretching me open around him.
He’s big. Long and thick. My body resists his size before it gives, and the burn of it pulls a moan from somewhere deep in my chest.
His breath comes out ragged, shattered, but his arms are strong, keeping me in place.
“Fuck, Shelby.”
He pulls out, and then pushes in, harder, filling me completely. I’m held between the wall and his body, impaled on his cock, and neither of us moves.
I roll my hips, telling him to move.
He pulls back and drives into me again, and the wall takes the impact. My shoulder blades slam against the plaster, and the sound I make is raw and desperate.
He fucks me with deep, grinding strokes that make every nerve ending come alive. His lips are on my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. One hand braces the wall beside my head. The other grips my hip, angling me so every thrust drags his cock across the spot inside me that makes my toes curl.
My nails rake down his back. He hisses against my throat, and his hips snap harder. The rhythm builds. Faster. Rougher.
“Look at me.” His hand grips my jaw. His blue eyes bore into mine, and I’m exposed. Cracked open. He’s inside my body and inside my head, and there’s nowhere to hide from how much I want him.
My second orgasm builds. Not a slow climb, but an inferno spreading from where he’s buried in me, up my spine, across my ribs, into my throat. His thumb finds my clit, pressing circles against it while he thrusts, and my body snaps taut.
“Come for me.”
