want to look at you,” he says in a low voice.
My breath rushes past my lips. My head swims; the room is filled with Jack. I’m drowning in him, trying to keep my head above water.
He bends to kiss me. His cheek scrapes my skin. He nuzzles into the crook of my neck and draws his nose along my jaw.
“God, you smell good,” he says. “Spread your legs, I want to see.”
He backs away and I hear him at the side of the bed.
Somehow all the things we did before seem a lifetime away. I don’t want to open myself that way, let him stand beside me and stare. I want him to cover me with his body, to distract me with sensation. I can’t make myself do what he wants.
His hand closes around the back of my knee, and he pulls me apart. One leg, then the other. This is easier, this passivity. Still, when he circles the bed, it takes all my will not to close my legs, curl my body, scream for him to stop looking at me. My heart rolls and gallops; air sweeps past my chilled lips in swift, quivering gusts. My skin flashes hot and cold, damp with anxiety.
He stops at the foot of the bed.
I turn my face into the pillow and choke back a hysterical sob. The handcuffs seem unnaturally heavy and confining and cruel. I want to beg him to fuck me, if only for the sake of being covered. Anything, anything would be better than this. A hard shudder courses up my flank. My mind floods with an incoherent, all-encompassing plea.
Please please please...
I think I hear him laughing. Then a zip and the shush of his pants dropping.
The bed sinks under his weight. His fingers close around my ankles, slide up my calves to my inner thighs. I hold my breath and feel his body’s reaction to my scent. The stiffening of his fingers, the long slow inhalation followed by a stuttering groan and an incantation of muttered profanity that draws an unwilling contraction from deep inside my body, as though he has summoned some mysterious female archetype asleep inside me.
A bead of moisture rolls down the crack of my ass, tickling.
He settles over me. His tongue sweeps slowly up the crevice of my body. His voice is a rumbled murmur that I feel rather than hear, a vibration against my labia, a tightening of his lips. His stubbled jaw scrapes my thighs. He sucks my clitoris, plucks with his teeth, circles with his tongue.
Now I can’t be still. I twist my arms, wishing they were free so I could twine my fingers in his dark hair and hold him to me, make him fuck me with his tongue and relieve this hollow ache in my belly. Heat springs up under his mouth. I arch my back and he covers my bare breast with his hand, rolling my nipple between his fingers. And it doesn’t matter that I can’t get free, because his freedom is enough. He knows where we’re going and how to get there.
The heat and pressure begin to break me. I moan and raise my hips to his mouth.
“That’s right,” he says around me. “I want to taste you, baby, come for me, that’s it....”
He bares me with his fingertips and pinches my clitoris between his forefingers, with his tongue between them and his hands holding me open. That is unbearable, a pleasure so intense it draws hot tears from my eyes. My climax zips like a fuse from the tips of my fingers and toes, up my thighs, down my ribs and explodes under his mouth with a force that lifts me right off the bed. He braces my hips, following relentlessly, not satisfied until he’s drawn a second shattering orgasm into his mouth, until I am broken and trembling in his arms, and begging with all my mind to be filled.
He leaves me then, and I wait through the reassuring crackle of his condom. Then he’s back, settling between my legs. He slips off my blindfold.
“Look at me,” he says.
He pushes forward, an inch at a time, and I can’t help but close my eyes against the pressure, the immense, thick maleness of him inside me. He drags his fingers through my hair. His lips move over mine.
“Open your eyes.”
He holds me still,
My breath rushes past my lips. My head swims; the room is filled with Jack. I’m drowning in him, trying to keep my head above water.
He bends to kiss me. His cheek scrapes my skin. He nuzzles into the crook of my neck and draws his nose along my jaw.
“God, you smell good,” he says. “Spread your legs, I want to see.”
He backs away and I hear him at the side of the bed.
Somehow all the things we did before seem a lifetime away. I don’t want to open myself that way, let him stand beside me and stare. I want him to cover me with his body, to distract me with sensation. I can’t make myself do what he wants.
His hand closes around the back of my knee, and he pulls me apart. One leg, then the other. This is easier, this passivity. Still, when he circles the bed, it takes all my will not to close my legs, curl my body, scream for him to stop looking at me. My heart rolls and gallops; air sweeps past my chilled lips in swift, quivering gusts. My skin flashes hot and cold, damp with anxiety.
He stops at the foot of the bed.
I turn my face into the pillow and choke back a hysterical sob. The handcuffs seem unnaturally heavy and confining and cruel. I want to beg him to fuck me, if only for the sake of being covered. Anything, anything would be better than this. A hard shudder courses up my flank. My mind floods with an incoherent, all-encompassing plea.
Please please please...
I think I hear him laughing. Then a zip and the shush of his pants dropping.
The bed sinks under his weight. His fingers close around my ankles, slide up my calves to my inner thighs. I hold my breath and feel his body’s reaction to my scent. The stiffening of his fingers, the long slow inhalation followed by a stuttering groan and an incantation of muttered profanity that draws an unwilling contraction from deep inside my body, as though he has summoned some mysterious female archetype asleep inside me.
A bead of moisture rolls down the crack of my ass, tickling.
He settles over me. His tongue sweeps slowly up the crevice of my body. His voice is a rumbled murmur that I feel rather than hear, a vibration against my labia, a tightening of his lips. His stubbled jaw scrapes my thighs. He sucks my clitoris, plucks with his teeth, circles with his tongue.
Now I can’t be still. I twist my arms, wishing they were free so I could twine my fingers in his dark hair and hold him to me, make him fuck me with his tongue and relieve this hollow ache in my belly. Heat springs up under his mouth. I arch my back and he covers my bare breast with his hand, rolling my nipple between his fingers. And it doesn’t matter that I can’t get free, because his freedom is enough. He knows where we’re going and how to get there.
The heat and pressure begin to break me. I moan and raise my hips to his mouth.
“That’s right,” he says around me. “I want to taste you, baby, come for me, that’s it....”
He bares me with his fingertips and pinches my clitoris between his forefingers, with his tongue between them and his hands holding me open. That is unbearable, a pleasure so intense it draws hot tears from my eyes. My climax zips like a fuse from the tips of my fingers and toes, up my thighs, down my ribs and explodes under his mouth with a force that lifts me right off the bed. He braces my hips, following relentlessly, not satisfied until he’s drawn a second shattering orgasm into his mouth, until I am broken and trembling in his arms, and begging with all my mind to be filled.
He leaves me then, and I wait through the reassuring crackle of his condom. Then he’s back, settling between my legs. He slips off my blindfold.
“Look at me,” he says.
He pushes forward, an inch at a time, and I can’t help but close my eyes against the pressure, the immense, thick maleness of him inside me. He drags his fingers through my hair. His lips move over mine.
“Open your eyes.”
He holds me still,
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