one cheek, bringing me into his body. Yeah baby. I wrap my arms around his shoulders again and hold on, drinking him in. He takes control of the kiss and dances with me when I try to take it back. There's not a crevice of my mouth he isn't intimately familiar with by this point.
I don't know how it happens, but I come alive for him then. Want starts to ride me harder than before. I'm not close enough, and yet there's only a few ways it's physically possible to be so. I go for it, hooking one leg around his torso. Too many freakin' layers of clothes between us still.
“ Yes,” he says against my mouth.
Did I voice my thoughts? I don't remember. Who cares? He's sliding an arm under my ass and hauling me up, causing me to wrap the other leg around and locking behind his back. I'm high up and he lets me shimmy lower until my pussy is flush against his stomach, his kiss following me down.
It's a zillion degrees of heat between us, too hot for clothes. Clothes must come off.
His clothes must come off. Best idea I've had all day.
I want him, and I want him now. I reach down with one hand and drag up his shirt. I don't get anywhere, as I'm sort of sitting on the thing.
He solves the problem by putting me on the table. He sets me right on it and lets go, breaking the kiss and leaning back to grab the shirt himself. I don't release my leg hold on him, and he doesn't say anything about it. He just gets the hem and pulls it up.
Whoa.
He tosses it away.
Did I say whoa already? I can't think of a better word.
M'anu is layer upon layer of muscle—not the gym kind, but the kind that comes from being naturally barrel chested and designed for delivering beatdowns. He doesn't have a six pack because that's too much concentration on one area. He's buff everywhere. Hips. Chest with defined pecs. Biceps, triceps, and a whole lot of other muscle groups that tell me he's the real deal.
My eyeballs are stuck to his skin and I'm gaping like a fish. I don't care. He's clearly amused by my ogling, and I'm currently inclined to indulge him.
He's so beautiful in his harshness. His body is not pretty like his face. It's scarred. There are marks everywhere, with stories attached I'll discover at a later time. That's what's so gorgeous about him—he's real. He's just...M'anu.
He picks up my hand and places it on his chest. Not on the left. On the right.
I feel his heart beating there. It's steady but excited, and his cock is already pressing into my crotch through both of our pants. Every move he makes, every time he shifts, I feel and see the muscles play under his skin. He's poetry in freakin' motion.
I drop my hand, pull my tank over my head, and throw it after his. “Now we're even,” I tease, leaning back on my elbows.
He studies me closely. “Not quite.” He hooks a finger over the front of my bra.
He's so damn hot. I look down at his finger and marvel at the size of it. I'm delicate next to him physically. He could crush me with one hand if he wanted.
I feel the age old surge of power all women experience when a man like this wants them. It's dangerous and seductive. Just like him. “Why don't you do something about it?”
His lips purse in thought. Well, who knew that would be adorable? “I believe I would rather watch.” His finger skims down my torso and over my hips, until he reaches my thighs. He skips the most important part of that journey (i.e. my very empty pussy) but he doesn't seem all that concerned, massaging my legs lazily.
I hook a finger over one strap and then the other, sitting up to drag them off of my shoulders, watching through my lashes. I reach behind to unclasp the bra, and moments later it was gone, dangling from my thumb before I let it drop.
B-cups are not going to impress anybody for size, but a boob is a boob is a boob, and M'anu's appreciative gaze proves that yet again. They're called fun bags for a reason.
I thrust out my chest so he can get a better look, loving the way he takes me
I don't know how it happens, but I come alive for him then. Want starts to ride me harder than before. I'm not close enough, and yet there's only a few ways it's physically possible to be so. I go for it, hooking one leg around his torso. Too many freakin' layers of clothes between us still.
“ Yes,” he says against my mouth.
Did I voice my thoughts? I don't remember. Who cares? He's sliding an arm under my ass and hauling me up, causing me to wrap the other leg around and locking behind his back. I'm high up and he lets me shimmy lower until my pussy is flush against his stomach, his kiss following me down.
It's a zillion degrees of heat between us, too hot for clothes. Clothes must come off.
His clothes must come off. Best idea I've had all day.
I want him, and I want him now. I reach down with one hand and drag up his shirt. I don't get anywhere, as I'm sort of sitting on the thing.
He solves the problem by putting me on the table. He sets me right on it and lets go, breaking the kiss and leaning back to grab the shirt himself. I don't release my leg hold on him, and he doesn't say anything about it. He just gets the hem and pulls it up.
Whoa.
He tosses it away.
Did I say whoa already? I can't think of a better word.
M'anu is layer upon layer of muscle—not the gym kind, but the kind that comes from being naturally barrel chested and designed for delivering beatdowns. He doesn't have a six pack because that's too much concentration on one area. He's buff everywhere. Hips. Chest with defined pecs. Biceps, triceps, and a whole lot of other muscle groups that tell me he's the real deal.
My eyeballs are stuck to his skin and I'm gaping like a fish. I don't care. He's clearly amused by my ogling, and I'm currently inclined to indulge him.
He's so beautiful in his harshness. His body is not pretty like his face. It's scarred. There are marks everywhere, with stories attached I'll discover at a later time. That's what's so gorgeous about him—he's real. He's just...M'anu.
He picks up my hand and places it on his chest. Not on the left. On the right.
I feel his heart beating there. It's steady but excited, and his cock is already pressing into my crotch through both of our pants. Every move he makes, every time he shifts, I feel and see the muscles play under his skin. He's poetry in freakin' motion.
I drop my hand, pull my tank over my head, and throw it after his. “Now we're even,” I tease, leaning back on my elbows.
He studies me closely. “Not quite.” He hooks a finger over the front of my bra.
He's so damn hot. I look down at his finger and marvel at the size of it. I'm delicate next to him physically. He could crush me with one hand if he wanted.
I feel the age old surge of power all women experience when a man like this wants them. It's dangerous and seductive. Just like him. “Why don't you do something about it?”
His lips purse in thought. Well, who knew that would be adorable? “I believe I would rather watch.” His finger skims down my torso and over my hips, until he reaches my thighs. He skips the most important part of that journey (i.e. my very empty pussy) but he doesn't seem all that concerned, massaging my legs lazily.
I hook a finger over one strap and then the other, sitting up to drag them off of my shoulders, watching through my lashes. I reach behind to unclasp the bra, and moments later it was gone, dangling from my thumb before I let it drop.
B-cups are not going to impress anybody for size, but a boob is a boob is a boob, and M'anu's appreciative gaze proves that yet again. They're called fun bags for a reason.
I thrust out my chest so he can get a better look, loving the way he takes me
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