He touched me in all places but two…no, three—my lower body where I wept softly for him, my peaked and aching breasts, and my lips.
“Kiss me.” Yearning for his taste, I tugged at his strong arms, urging him up.
He answered my plea and kissed me. But not where I expected. He kissed me at the lowest point, where I hungered most for him. His breath fell on me first, giving me a second’s warning before he delved between my legs. Opening me wider with his hands, his shoulders, he kissed my soft, glistening folds. I lay there, shocked, stunned, surprised, until that first, rough-delicate lick up one side of my nether lips. Then I moaned and spread my legs wider for him. Arched up as he lapped down the other side. Gave a muffled shriek as he delved deeper, stroked his tongue into my channel’s wetness. Oh!
It was the worst tease, building me up slowly with devilish licks, teasing tongue, hot smoky breath. My body jerked and quivered beneath his totally hedonistic appreciation of me, of my wetness and desire for him. He rumbled his appreciation against me and the vibration was transmitted from his mouth to my sensitive, weeping core. I moaned, lifting my hips, twisting harder against him. He turned his face, stroking the short stubbles of his jaw over my mound, scraping over my half-hidden pearl, stabbing it with sensation. He rubbed against me like a purring cat, a brief, spiky caress followed by the smooth, soothing rub of his soft, silky lips.
“Dante,” I moaned, as he alternately stimulated me then soothed me. And all the time he did this, his hands touched, pressed, and caressed my feet, giving me sensation on top of sensation in places I was not used to feeling so sharply. It was as if his touch, there in those two spots, polarized my entire body, spreading to my breasts, my womb, my quivering thighs, my throbbing lips. His thumbs stroked the arches of my feet, and my body tightened, flexed, my hips lifting up into him. He purred and rewarded me with a deep, penetrating stab of his tongue that both filled me and left me aching for more. For something harder, thicker. Much, much longer.
“Dante.” His name was plea and demand, prayer and affirmation.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes!”
He slid his thumb inside me with a gentle thrust, and I gasped. Moaned as he withdrew it, pushed it back in again like a little miniature penis. Both of us watched as that single digit slid inside me, the fat head disappearing, the slender stalk swallowed up. Then watched it come back out in reverse, wet and slick with my dewy desire.
Both the feeling of what he was doing with his thumb—again nice, but like a tiny, teasing appetizer, not the main course—and the fact that he was watching it so raptly as he exercised that deliberate, slow, in-and-out fucking movement…tightened me, inside and out, swelling my desire, and brought light to my skin, beginning its incandescent glow.
His lips and cheeks were smeared wet from my intimate fluid. I could see my essence coating him, could smell myself on him, and the light within me flared even brighter.
His eyes lifted, spearing me with his hot gaze, with the knowledge and awareness in them—that my legs were splayed wide, my body open to him, lifted up like a flower opening to the sun, welcoming his warm, stroking attention.
He rotated his hand, shifting the angle so that his thumb pushed against, instead of with my body’s natural pathway, stretching the thinner posterior wall, flooding me with sudden, new, unexpected sensation. I bit back a cry, unable to help the involuntary squeezing down of my walls against that penetrating thumb that I suddenly felt with incredible sensitivity as it plowed a slightly different path inside of me.
“Touch yourself. Stroke your breasts for me,” he murmured in a soft, gentle voice that was so completely at odds with the fierce shine of his eyes. Everything about him was like that. Gentle but intense. His angled-back thumb dipping in and out of me, his knowing gaze. His awareness of how hard it was for me to do as he asked. Touch yourself for me. Give yourself to me that way.
My hands shook as they lifted up, my head falling back, my eyes closing as I did as he asked me to do. As I touched myself while he watched me do it.
Closing my eyes made it worse instead of better, because I could feel everything more that way. His watching eyes. My cool hands as I stroked the soft, curving slopes of my breasts, brushed over my turgid nipples. As I cupped myself and squeezed as if it were his hands stroking over me. That was how I touched myself. Imagining it as his hands, not mine. His hands that circled my pebbled, pouting crests. That thumbed over them. Brushed over the sensitive nubs. Pinched the hardening peaks.
Pleasure rolled deliciously over me, and I opened my eyes. Looked at him. “Like this?” I murmured.
His voice, when he answered, was hoarse and thick, his eyes gone a smoky gray, as if clouds had swarmed across the sky. “Yes, like that.”
I smiled at his answer, at his reaction. And what had first been awkward now became easy. It was as if the hands that were touching me were touching him also. Teasing, caressing. Soothing, tantalizing.
I circled my nipples with forefinger and thumb. Squeezed.
I bit my lips, tightening inside around his thumb. Held it for a moment in my tight, greedy grasp before it slipped from me, then pushed back in. I groaned and opened my eyes to find his eyes locked on the rosy red tips of my nipples, engorged and lengthened from my pinching caress.
I ran my fingertips around the flushed areolas, smiling like a game show hostess drawing graceful attention to a waiting prize. Yours if you gave the right answer.
“Or like this?” I asked, my voice sultry, low, like Eve offering up forbidden fruit to Adam. With slow seduction, I put my finger and thumb back around the hard little peaks and squeezed my nipples again with another slow, rolling moan, another delicious tightening of my body around his pumping thumb.
I pulled, tugging on those swollen tips for two long seconds, pulling them out. Then my fingers cupped and framed what I had wrought—my nipples flushed cherry red, fully elongated, jutting out like little fingers.
With a hungry growl, like a beast teased past what he would resist, he tore open his pants and swarmed up my body, latching onto a jutting nipple with his warm, wet mouth, sucking on it hungrily while his left hand covered my other breast in a frank claiming. Mine! that hand proclaimed as he wrapped his fingers around the turgid tip and squeezed with firm, possessive pressure.
I cried out and arched against his sucking mouth, his torturing hand, my legs bending up around his waist. His other hand slid beneath my bottom, grasped my cheek and lifted me, grinding my mound up against his hard sternum. The angle of it was just right, catching my swollen pearl in the place of greatest friction. His teeth scraped over my nipple, capturing it with the dull-sharp edges of his teeth, pulling on it. Simultaneously squeezing and tugging on the other tip with his clever fingers. One more stimulus added…the unexpected graze of his fingertips there along my anal pucker…and I climaxed. It rolled sharply, suddenly over me like a huge, cresting wave, sweeping over me, drowning me in shaking ripples, in tearing, convulsive sensation. My light and my pleasure spilled out from me like the sun bursting apart.
After the giant peak had passed, he slipped into me while I was yet shuddering in the helpless, quivering aftermath. As my light dimmed, his began to glow. It was like one of the most natural things in the world, that my ebbing spark of light would beget his.