He licks faster, sucks harder, rubs his beard against my thighs, and…yes. The roughness of his stubble, the softness of his lips, the focus of his tongue.
I breathe out hard, swallow, then moan again. All for me to witness. And I don’t look like the woman who likes to be in control, to plan and to prepare and to organize. I never thought I’d look that way as I was driven wild by pleasure, sure, but a thrill shoots through me at my reflection. I look…wild. Beautiful.
Then, he kisses me more deeply, and I wobble. Grabbing his shoulders, I dig in, trying to hold on.
That stops him. And in no time, he’s rising, scooping me up and carrying me to the edge of the bed.
“Sit. Spread your legs for me.”
My butt hits the mattress. I part my thighs.
He crosses his arms. “Wider. And use your hands. Spread them open for me.”
Nerves spark inside me, but so does heat. This is the in-control Lake. The man in charge. The man willing to wait for it.
And for me.
I slide my hands down, spread my legs open.
“Oh, fuck. Look at you. Fucking look at you.” He drops down to his knees again, then devours me.
There’s no other word for it.
He’s fucking me with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, even his beard it seems. He’s eating me up like I’m the last thing he’s ever going to have.
Like I’m the only thing he wants to have.
And I’m grabbing his skull, digging my nails in, yanking him closer.
And…watching. I’m staring at us, as I take and he gives, and soon I lose control.
Soon, the pull of pleasure becomes too much.
It tips me over, and I’m coming apart on his mouth. He moans through it, loud, hungry sounds like a man feasting, like a man licking every last drop from his fingers, a man savoring the taste.
When I come down from my high, he’s standing again, ripping off his shirt, toeing off his shoes, then undoing his jeans.
And I want his nudity, more than anything, but I also want…this.
I dart out a hand, covering his, stopping him. My voice still breathy from the orgasm, I say, “Turn around. Strip in front of the mirror.”
His smile—it’s the stuff of dirty legend. It’s crooked and hot.
He turns in slo-mo, like he knows he’s sexy. I stand, half-naked, just my sweater on, sloping down my shoulder. Moving next to him, I lock eyes with his reflection as hepushes his jeans down his thighs, to his ankles, then off. I bite my lip, excitement racing through me.
My gaze strays to his black boxer briefs. There’s a wet spot on them, and his hard-on strains against the fabric.
“Off. Now,” I direct, and holy shit. The hair on my arms stands on end. What even is this feeling inside me? This power. This thrill. It’s addictive.
He sheds his briefs in a flash, tossing them to the floor. The fact that he treats them differently than my clothes excites me too. Maybe everything does about Lake.
But what thrills me most of all is the way he’s so shameless in the mirror, stroking his hard cock, his eyes pinning my reflection.
He gives a long, slow tug, squeezing the head. A drop of liquid beads out.
I let out a hungry cry, my mouth falling open, and I don’t even care how obvious I am.
“Want that, beautiful? A taste of me?”
