You got me going with your words, that picture. The image of your mouth kissing the soft flesh overflowing the cups of my bra. You started it.
You carried it on when you licked a nipple through lace. Then you sucked me in, bit down, and I was a throbbing, slick bundle of nerve endings.
When my hand slipped beneath my waistband, my fingers meeting curls, then that lovely, soft, freshly shaven flesh, I gave you a look that said back off. I turned away from you, on my knees on the neatly made bed, and I bared myself and you watched, you watched while I got lost in the sensation. As I came the first time, I felt your thumb slip into my ass. I exploded.
I fell forward and lay panting, moaning, still caressing my swollen self, and I felt you, your breath first. Then your tongue, your mouth, as you licked from my fingers, up across my wet opening, to my– I started to protest, but your hand on my buttock, squeezing hard, your fingers biting into my soft flesh, and I in turn, bit down on the words. You did it again, a long, slow, lazy lick. You were drinking me, teasing me. And rather than subsiding, the throbbing ache built, and my fingers searched out my engorged clit and began again.
The second climax rolled like thunder when your tongue penetrated.
At the memory of her last sentence, his cock jerked in his hand and the breath and sound left his body. It was a momentary release from the sorrow, a momentary memory of the kind of person she’d been – fearless, generous, sometimes a brat and a bitch, but always the only woman he’d ever love completely.
He laid for a moment, then picked up the dog-eared paper from the bed at his side and pressed it to his lips. It was the only way sleep ever found him these days.
Inspired by this beautiful image. Thank you, Kayla!