He doesn't pause long. His head lifts, his piercing blue eyes finding mine, and then his fingers move my panties aside.The air hits me and I bite down on my lip so hard I nearly taste blood.
"You're so wet,"he says. His voice is low and unhurried and devastating.
He slides his fingers across my entrance, slow and deliberate, and I feel my arousal coat his fingertips like he already owns this part of me. Then he lifts his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine, and sucks them clean with a focus that makes my knees genuinely threaten to stop functioning.
I’m trying to unbutton his shirt. My hands are on it — I have two buttons free — when he drops to his knees in front of me. The sight of him there, six feet three inches of contained, commanding man folding himself to the floor in front of me with that expression on his face — something between hunger and certainty — short-circuits every remaining coherent thoughtI have. His hands reach up under my dress and grip my panties, pulling the fabric down in one firm motion to my ankles. I step out of them before I've consciously decided to. He tosses my panties aside without looking at it.
He looks up at me instead. That look. That specific, devastating look — like I am the only thing in this room worth his full attention, which is the most dangerous thing about him, I am beginning to understand. He hooks my leg over his right shoulder.
God.
He spreads my thighs and lowers his head, and the first contact of his mouth against me pulls a sound from somewhere I didn't know I kept sounds. He takes his time — drawing his lips across my wet pussy entrance, tasting the juices from my arousal, looking up at me while he does it with an expression that makes it clear he finds the experience as satisfying as I do. He parts my folds with his tongue, and moves through me slowly, finding his way to my clit with the focused precision of someone who is very good at everything he does and knows it.
Then he closes his mouth over the hardened bud and the world goes sideways. He is not gentle. He does not appear to believe in gentle, or at least not right now, not with me — he sucks hard and deliberate and relentless. I grab his hair with both hands because I need to hold onto something or I’ll slide down this wall entirely. My hips push forward without my permission. He makes a low sound against me that vibrates through every nerve ending I own.
Then two fingers thrust inside me — not gently, not gradually, with a twisting rhythm that finds the exact right angle on the first try — and I stop being capable of forming words.
He works me with both — his mouth on my clit, his fingers moving inside me in that precise, devastating rhythm — until my thighs are shaking and my grip on his hair is tight enoughto hurt and I am making sounds I will never be able to claim as dignified.
The sensation builds in my belly like something structural giving way. It spreads outward in waves I can’t contain. When I orgasm, it happens completely and without warning. My whole body pulls tight, then my orgasm releases in a rush that leaves me breathless, trembling, and still gripping his hair while he stays exactly where he is, unhurried, lapping up my squirt with his tongue, and taking everything I give him.
He eases my leg down from his shoulder and rises to his feet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his piercing blue eyes on mine, and I’m still trying to locate my breath somewhere in this hotel room.
He presses himself against me and I feel exactly how much he wants me — the hard, insistent weight of cock against my hip — and something in me that had just begun to come down spikes right back up. I grab the front of his shirt. My fingers find the buttons I started earlier and I work through them with considerably less patience than I had sixty seconds ago, nearly pulling two free from the fabric entirely. My palms land back on his chest — bare now, warm, the muscle shifting under my hands as he reaches for the strap of my dress.
He slides it down my shoulder. His hand moves over my breast through the remaining fabric, gripping with a possession that makes my breath catch all over again. I get his belt open — it takes both hands and more determination than I'd like to admit — and drag his zipper down. My hand finds what's inside and I pull him free.
I look down and I take a moment. He’s long and thick—it’s almost intimidating. I wrap my hand around his dick and begin to stroke slowly, feeling the weight and heat of his girth, and the grunt that leaves his throat at my touch is the most satisfying sound I have heard tonight. I sink to my knees.
He leans forward, one hand bracing against the wall above me, and I take my time — stroking him against my face, feeling the slide of him, watching his jaw tighten from this angle which is its own particular reward. I bring the tip to my lips and taste the bead of cum gathered there, then I take him fully into my mouth.
His hands go immediately into my hair. I hollow my cheeks and suck him slowly at first — both hands around his shaft, my mouth following — and the groan that comes from somewhere in his chest is low and rough and sets every nerve in my body back on alert. His grip in my hair tightens. His hips begin to move, finding a rhythm, deepening it, until he is using the grip he has on me to guide exactly what he wants and I let him because I want the same thing.
His thrusts become harder. Less controlled. The back of my head hits the wall with each one as he fucks my mouth with force. I bring him closer with both hands rather than pulling back, which tells him everything he needs to know about where I stand on this.
"I'm fucking close,"he says, ragged and low.
I don't slow down. I pull him closer. He stills himself with a grip on the back of my head that pins me in place, his entire body shuddering, as he cums in the back of my throat. His load is warm and thick as I taste him. He tastes like salt and lemon, with a sharp bitterness that is entirely specific to him. I swallow slowly, and thoroughly.
He pulls me to my feet. We’re both breathing like we've run somewhere. He reaches for the other strap of my dress and slides it from my shoulder, letting the whole thing fall to the floor. He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra with one hand. I step out of what remains and stand in front of him in the Paris darkness with nothing left to hide behind and he looks at me — really looks, the way he does everything, with his complete andunhurried attention — and then he steps forward and kisses me again.
He doesn't seem to mind that he can taste himself on my tongue. He doesn't seem to mind anything right now except getting closer. I pull his shirt from his shoulders. He steps out of his trousers. He is already rising again, which I receive with a combination of disbelief and something that feels very much like greed, and he takes my hand and pulls me toward the chair by the window.
He sits. He spreads his legs. His eyes stay on mine as he fists his cock again, jerking it slowly, deliberately, watching my face while he does it with the specific arrogance of a man who is very certain of what is about to happen.
"Sit on my cock,"he says.
I do not hesitate. I straddle him and he lines himself up and I slide down onto him — feeling every inch of the stretch and the fullness. We both make the same involuntary sound at the same moment. He grips my thighs and lifts me and brings me back down, his hips thrusting upward to meet me, and I grip his shoulders and move with him, bouncing up and down on his cock.
I suck his lower lip into my mouth. He groans against mine. I feel every movement, every shift, the ridge of him finding the exact right place inside me with a consistency that shouldn't be possible for a stranger—but it clearly is.
His hands move to the backs of my thighs and he shifts forward and stands —stands, with me still wrapped around him, my legs locking at his waist — and carries me toward the bed. But he doesn't lay me down immediately. He holds me suspended and fucks me mid-air, his grip on my thighs iron-tight, as his long cock drives in and out of me with ease. At this point my moans are uncontrollable and loud, but I don't particularly care who hears it.
He lowers me to the mattress as he pulls out, but only long enough to reposition me, then climbs onto the bed and lifts both my legs onto his shoulders. He looks at me from this angle — composed, dark-eyed, utterly sure of himself. He fists his cock once, and slides back inside. His thrusts are hard and deliberate and completely without mercy.
"You feel so fucking good,"he says, his voice raw and ragged at the edges.
"Your—"He stops. Shakes his head once like he is overwhelmed by the specific information.
