He groans, mouth eager, eyes on me wide and thrilled.
I relish the tight swell of my tendons, my muscles, the blood rushing so heated and urgent in my veins. I can feel it build, spread out and race through my limbs, exploding between my legs. I’m gasping, hoarse and senseless, offering no words, just sharp sounds. The echo of my orgasm rings around us as I fall back onto the pillow.
I feel drugged, and with effort I push him away from where his lips press to my thigh so I can sit up. He stumbles to his feet, pants undone and slung low over his hips. I look up at him, and from the light coming out of the bathroom I can see how wet his mouth is, from me—as if he was hunting, as if I was caught and devoured.
He wipes a forearm across his entire face, and steps closer to the bed just as I lean forward and take him in my mouth.
He cries out, desperate. "Already close."
It’s a warning. I can feel it in the jutting thrusts of his hips, the tense swelling of the head of his cock, the way he grips my head like he wants to pull back, make this last longer, but can’t. He fucks my mouth, seeming to know already that it’s okay, and after only six sharp jabs across my tongue and teeth and lips, he’s holding steady, deep inside and coming with a low, rasping groan.
I pull my mouth away from him and he runs a shaking finger across my lip as I swallow.
“So good,” he exhales.
I fall back on the pillow and feel like my muscles have been completely silenced after the frenzy of my entry into the room. I’m leaden and numb, and other than the heavy echo of pleasure between my legs, the only thing I can feel is my smile.
The room has turned pink in the sunset pouring through the window, and Ansel hovers over me on rigid arms, breathing heavily. I feel the rake of his gaze move across my skin, come to settle on my breasts, and he smiles at the same time I feel my nipples grow tight.
"I left marks all over you last night." He bends, blowing air across one peak. "I'm sorry."
I laugh and tug his hair playfully. “You don’t sound sorry.”
He grins up at me, and when he pulls back to admire his handiwork again, I give in to the unfamiliar instinct to cross my arms over my chest. In dance, my small frame was a benefit; my small breasts were an ideal non-hindrance. But in the bare skin world of sex, I can't imagine my 32Bs cut it.
"What are you doing?" he asks, tugging on my forearm as he kicks off his pants. "It's too late to be shy with me now."
"I feel tiny."
He laughs. "You are tiny, cerise. But I like every tiny inch of you. I haven’t seen your skin in hours." Bending, he circles my nipple with his tongue. "You have sensitive breasts, I discovered."
I suspect I have sensitive everything when he's the one touching me.
His palm spreads across one breast while he sucks at the other and his tongue begins to move in small, flat, pressing circles. It revives the delicious throb between my legs.
I think he knows it, too, because the hand cupping my breast slides down over my ribs, across my stomach, down my navel and between my legs, but he never stops circling with his tongue.
And then his fingers are there, two of them pressed flat, and he's making the same circles in the same rhythm, and it’s as if a tight band connects between where his tongue and fingers are, pulling tighter and tighter, warmer and warmer. I'm bowing up off the bed and gripping his head, begging him in a hoarse voice to please please please.
The same rhythm, both places, and I’m worried I’ll fall apart, melt into the bed or simply dissolve into nothing when he hums over my nipple, his fingers pressing harder, and then he lets up only long enough to ask me, “Won’t you let me hear you one more time?”
I don’t know if I could survive it. I can’t survive without it.
With him, my sounds are hoarse and free, I don’t seem to hold back words of pleasure and it’s completely without thought. I offer up everything and my sounds spur him on until he’s sucking frantically and I’m arching into his hand crying out—
Coming