The Naughty Pleasures Bundle (Naughty Pleasures: Volume 1/Naughty Pleasures: Volume 2/Naughty Pleasures: Volume 3) by Abbie Cole Page A
Authors: Abbie Cole
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between my legs, caress my plump pink lips. Running his forefinger around my opening, he opens me, testing, pressing in to my glistening channel. My pussy clenches around his finger as he slides his finger in and out in masterful strokes, coaxing pleasure from every inch of my body.
Drinking in my gasp through our kiss, he takes in my breath as he strokes and probes. Drawing back from the kiss, he withdraws his hands from me. One still remaining on my hip, he steadies me, the other slips between us; I feel him fiddling at his waist, looking down, I move my hands down his chest, brush his hands away and cup the huge bulge in his jeans. I deal with the zipper and rip open his jeans; my lips curve as I lay him bare. His cock engorged and erect buoyed in front of him, jutting from the nest of trimmed pubic hair at the base.
I swallow, easing the dryness in my throat, wetting my lips as I fill my hand with his rock-hard cock and start pumping his smooth length, rubbing my thumb over the crown of his cock spreading the drop of pre-come over the tip. I hear his raspy breathing as he sucks in, feel him tense. His hardened flesh grows even harder with each stroke of my hand. I feel his breath growing labored. I close my hand firmly. Marveling at the contrast of velvety softness enclosing such potent, patently masculine strength, I allow my nails to gently score upward.
I repeat the torture three times before he carefully disengages; for just a moment, I question if he is breathing. Until he begins stepping back and sitting on the swing, urging me to follow. “Are you ready for my big, hard cock?”
My mouth opening, all I can do is nod.
“ Kneel astride.”
I don’t argue, not questioning because I am desperate to feel his hard cock. I submit sweetly to his commands. Putting one knee up, now the other, I feel the damask cushion under both knees, straddling his muscular thighs. I wrap my arms around his neck, tilt my head and set my lips to his, shifting ever so closer, until my stomach meets the hard wall of his abdomen, sliding sensuously down. The touch of his clothes, rough against my soft skin, is a reminder of my nakedness and his relatively clothed state.
He ravages my mouth and urges me lower. His hand is beneath me, guiding me, guiding the head of his erection into the softness of my swollen labia drenched with my juices. I feel its touch, feel the strength as he presses in just a little, just past the constriction. My lungs seize and I stop, then, slowly, slowly—as slowly as I can—I ease fraction by fraction down, taking him in, glorying in the pressure, the fullness, the ease with which my body adjusts, then closes eagerly about him.
I don’t stop until I impale myself fully. I can’t breathe. My skin alive, heated, nerves flickering.
Now he captures my mouth, his tongue thrusting deep, fracturing my attention. Mouth and teeth scrape. I feel his thigh, beneath mine, flexing.
The swing begins to rock.
Sensations wash through me. Surprisingly, I cling, as I press closer, I feel his hands on my legs, urging me to wrap them around his hips. The heat of his body washes over me, engulfs me; something primitive prowls just behind his mask.
I do, and he is now even deeper inside me; the sensations intensify, driven by the swing, by the increasing momentum. The swing is well oiled, well balanced; the occasional push from Jonathan’s foot is enough to keep us whooshing gently back and forth.
Which one of us started the dance, I am not sure, layering one rhythm atop another, matching an effortless thrust and withdrawal to the swing’s motion. Amplifying the effect, I control it, using my arms to ease myself up, using my locked legs as leverage. Once I have the rhythm established, our bodies are merging freely, deeply, in absolute harmony, his hands leave my hips, moving over my skin, caressing, knowingly stroking, igniting a million small fires that slowly, gradually, coalesce into a blaze, an inferno.
A vortex
Drinking in my gasp through our kiss, he takes in my breath as he strokes and probes. Drawing back from the kiss, he withdraws his hands from me. One still remaining on my hip, he steadies me, the other slips between us; I feel him fiddling at his waist, looking down, I move my hands down his chest, brush his hands away and cup the huge bulge in his jeans. I deal with the zipper and rip open his jeans; my lips curve as I lay him bare. His cock engorged and erect buoyed in front of him, jutting from the nest of trimmed pubic hair at the base.
I swallow, easing the dryness in my throat, wetting my lips as I fill my hand with his rock-hard cock and start pumping his smooth length, rubbing my thumb over the crown of his cock spreading the drop of pre-come over the tip. I hear his raspy breathing as he sucks in, feel him tense. His hardened flesh grows even harder with each stroke of my hand. I feel his breath growing labored. I close my hand firmly. Marveling at the contrast of velvety softness enclosing such potent, patently masculine strength, I allow my nails to gently score upward.
I repeat the torture three times before he carefully disengages; for just a moment, I question if he is breathing. Until he begins stepping back and sitting on the swing, urging me to follow. “Are you ready for my big, hard cock?”
My mouth opening, all I can do is nod.
“ Kneel astride.”
I don’t argue, not questioning because I am desperate to feel his hard cock. I submit sweetly to his commands. Putting one knee up, now the other, I feel the damask cushion under both knees, straddling his muscular thighs. I wrap my arms around his neck, tilt my head and set my lips to his, shifting ever so closer, until my stomach meets the hard wall of his abdomen, sliding sensuously down. The touch of his clothes, rough against my soft skin, is a reminder of my nakedness and his relatively clothed state.
He ravages my mouth and urges me lower. His hand is beneath me, guiding me, guiding the head of his erection into the softness of my swollen labia drenched with my juices. I feel its touch, feel the strength as he presses in just a little, just past the constriction. My lungs seize and I stop, then, slowly, slowly—as slowly as I can—I ease fraction by fraction down, taking him in, glorying in the pressure, the fullness, the ease with which my body adjusts, then closes eagerly about him.
I don’t stop until I impale myself fully. I can’t breathe. My skin alive, heated, nerves flickering.
Now he captures my mouth, his tongue thrusting deep, fracturing my attention. Mouth and teeth scrape. I feel his thigh, beneath mine, flexing.
The swing begins to rock.
Sensations wash through me. Surprisingly, I cling, as I press closer, I feel his hands on my legs, urging me to wrap them around his hips. The heat of his body washes over me, engulfs me; something primitive prowls just behind his mask.
I do, and he is now even deeper inside me; the sensations intensify, driven by the swing, by the increasing momentum. The swing is well oiled, well balanced; the occasional push from Jonathan’s foot is enough to keep us whooshing gently back and forth.
Which one of us started the dance, I am not sure, layering one rhythm atop another, matching an effortless thrust and withdrawal to the swing’s motion. Amplifying the effect, I control it, using my arms to ease myself up, using my locked legs as leverage. Once I have the rhythm established, our bodies are merging freely, deeply, in absolute harmony, his hands leave my hips, moving over my skin, caressing, knowingly stroking, igniting a million small fires that slowly, gradually, coalesce into a blaze, an inferno.
A vortex
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