marshal my thoughts I wonder how I have come to be lying on a sheet whose threadcount is far, far higher than any I have ever previously experienced. Then I notice the wrist and hand lying heavily across my stomach, attached to the man I have desired for so long…OK, six months…and I breathe in his sleepy, manly smell and want to groan out loud at the way it fills me with longing. Sinclair, divine Sinclair, dreaming beside me, having plans for me tomorrow….I drift back into sleep, musing with pleasurable fear on what the plans could possibly be…
When I wake up next I register a tickle of lips on my neck before I have a chance to open my eyes. I catch a breath and feel the lips begin to press down, the tip of a tongue pushing into my sensitive flesh, then a suction against it, ooooh, I love that feeling, but never get to indulge it because I don’t want the embarrassment of having to account for love bites. If Sinclair carries on at this rate, though, there will certainly be a substantial mark there… I open my eyes.
“You’ll mark me,” I whisper hoarsely, noting the rather unconcealable spot he has chose n for this novel wake-up call. He simply presses fingers down on either side of his ravening mouth. When he finally finishes his wicked work, he gives me a dirty glint and says, “As I fully intend.”
His hands move down to my nipples, pinching them gently at first, then making me ‘Ooh!’ with the sharp twinge his fingers occasion.
“How painful is that?” he wants to know.
“Uh…moderately,” I say, not sure what scale he operates on.
“Right. Come on. Get up. We’re showering, having breakfast and then going back to bed.”
He pulls me out of bed and shepherds me along to the bathroom, turning all the jets on in the shower so that the room rapidly fills with steam. The pressure of the water is pleasantly needly as it falls on my scalp, then Sinclair takes the shampoo bottle and works up a rich lather on my head, massaging it in with skilled fingers, moving downwards to my neck then my shoulders, loosening me perfectly. He swirls the foamy gel around my body, lingering over my breasts and kneeling to ensure he hasn’t missed a millimetre of my lower lips, which are washed very, very thoroughly indeed, even up inside me. Then he turns me round and repeats the process with my back and bottom, cleaning out the cleft of my buttocks with just as forensic care, pressing gently against my rear entrance for a second or two so that I squirm an escape attempt. “Keep still,” he growls, slapping at my rump, its wetness intensifying the sting of his blow. I am slightly uneasy at this – after all, I have no idea how far he will go with me, but I submit to the rest of his ablutions without moving.
When he has finished with me, he sits on the shelf and in vites me to return the favour. I start with his hair, which I have always liked, planting fingers deep into the lush growth and mashing at his scalp with a will while I stand between his knees. He fidgets with my nipples while I work, ducking forward to take one in his mouth and flick his tongue over it until I have to still my hands for a minute, giddy at the sensation. I move my hands down his face and neck, like a sculptor assessing a new piece, feeling every tendon, running my thumb over his Adams apple, marvelling at the differences between the composition of a man and a woman. His shoulders are not especially broad, I am quite surprised to note, but he holds himself so erect that one wouldn’t really realise. His frame is taut, sinewy but lithe; there is not an excess ounce on him but he is not skinny, just pleasingly willowy. He stands so that I can see to his back, an inverted isosceles triangle tapering away to his waist and hips and his biteable, beautiful bum. Long, long legs, feet that are big but elegantly so, and then I move back up his front, over his knees until I reach the hallowed apparatus hanging between his thighs.
“Wash it
When I wake up next I register a tickle of lips on my neck before I have a chance to open my eyes. I catch a breath and feel the lips begin to press down, the tip of a tongue pushing into my sensitive flesh, then a suction against it, ooooh, I love that feeling, but never get to indulge it because I don’t want the embarrassment of having to account for love bites. If Sinclair carries on at this rate, though, there will certainly be a substantial mark there… I open my eyes.
“You’ll mark me,” I whisper hoarsely, noting the rather unconcealable spot he has chose n for this novel wake-up call. He simply presses fingers down on either side of his ravening mouth. When he finally finishes his wicked work, he gives me a dirty glint and says, “As I fully intend.”
His hands move down to my nipples, pinching them gently at first, then making me ‘Ooh!’ with the sharp twinge his fingers occasion.
“How painful is that?” he wants to know.
“Uh…moderately,” I say, not sure what scale he operates on.
“Right. Come on. Get up. We’re showering, having breakfast and then going back to bed.”
He pulls me out of bed and shepherds me along to the bathroom, turning all the jets on in the shower so that the room rapidly fills with steam. The pressure of the water is pleasantly needly as it falls on my scalp, then Sinclair takes the shampoo bottle and works up a rich lather on my head, massaging it in with skilled fingers, moving downwards to my neck then my shoulders, loosening me perfectly. He swirls the foamy gel around my body, lingering over my breasts and kneeling to ensure he hasn’t missed a millimetre of my lower lips, which are washed very, very thoroughly indeed, even up inside me. Then he turns me round and repeats the process with my back and bottom, cleaning out the cleft of my buttocks with just as forensic care, pressing gently against my rear entrance for a second or two so that I squirm an escape attempt. “Keep still,” he growls, slapping at my rump, its wetness intensifying the sting of his blow. I am slightly uneasy at this – after all, I have no idea how far he will go with me, but I submit to the rest of his ablutions without moving.
When he has finished with me, he sits on the shelf and in vites me to return the favour. I start with his hair, which I have always liked, planting fingers deep into the lush growth and mashing at his scalp with a will while I stand between his knees. He fidgets with my nipples while I work, ducking forward to take one in his mouth and flick his tongue over it until I have to still my hands for a minute, giddy at the sensation. I move my hands down his face and neck, like a sculptor assessing a new piece, feeling every tendon, running my thumb over his Adams apple, marvelling at the differences between the composition of a man and a woman. His shoulders are not especially broad, I am quite surprised to note, but he holds himself so erect that one wouldn’t really realise. His frame is taut, sinewy but lithe; there is not an excess ounce on him but he is not skinny, just pleasingly willowy. He stands so that I can see to his back, an inverted isosceles triangle tapering away to his waist and hips and his biteable, beautiful bum. Long, long legs, feet that are big but elegantly so, and then I move back up his front, over his knees until I reach the hallowed apparatus hanging between his thighs.
“Wash it
Similar Books
