style="font-size:15px;"> Grace’s hands drop to her skirt, and my cock is like granite in my pants. I am desperate to touch her, for my hands to be doing what her hands are, but somehow I feel like this matters to her. That taking charge of this is a big part of what she needs, and so I stay where she’s pushed me, I lie there and I watch her and I tell myself, soon. Soon I will touch her and taste her and kiss her and drive myself deep into her body, burying myself balls-deep in her wetness, making her cry my name again and again into this tiny room.
She moves slowly, too slowly. I want to see her, I want to see her naked, but she teases the skirt over her narrow hips, her eyes almost laughing as they watch me, and then, realising she’s enjoying this, I hiss out a breath, but still don’t move. Finally, finally, she’s wearing just about the most delicious scrap of lace I’ve ever seen. It’s barely anything—fine and delicate, it covers her vagina but at the hips it’s just lace, narrow bands that wrap around to the back.
‘Turn around,’ I command, my voice throaty.
Her eyes hitch to mine and she bites down on her lip again, drawing my attention to the full pillow of her lower lip. It was one of the first things I noticed about her. That, and the long blond hair that tumbled over one shoulder. And the way she kept stirring her drink and darting her eyes around the bar.
With the same speed, or lack thereof, she used to remove her skirt, she begins to spin, turning her back on me, and I can’t help the groan that escapes me. ‘Fuck me,’ I mutter, because the lace is just a T between two perfect peach-like arse cheeks.
She tosses a glance over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t that the plan?’
Okay. I get that she wants to be in control here, but suddenly my dick is like a torture device in my pants. I move my hands to my belt but she turns back to me and I’m hit with the realisation of her beautiful rounded breasts and I don’t know if I’m an arse or tit man any more, but just that Grace is whatever I need and want.
She straddles me, her hands on mine. ‘Let me.’
She’s really doing the whole ‘take charge’ thing, but I lie back, not caring if it’s her or me who gets my clothes off, just caring that somehow we’re naked together, soon.
But, instead of unbuttoning my jeans, she leans up to my shirt, which means wriggling her body higher up my frame, so suddenly her G-string-clad body is pressed right over my dick.
She moves her hips provocatively and I am done with the passive lie-still thing. I grab her hips, holding her on my cock, staring at her while I move my hips, as though I really were inside of her and she were naked, her legs spread, taking me into her wet core.
Her eyes flare wide and I grunt as I move her body up and down my length, through my jeans, and she’s not passive here, either; she begins to grind her hips, using me to get off, her hands balling in my shirt front before pushing it up my body, and I lift my head so she can get it off completely and then she’s dropping her body forward so her breasts, her soft, round breasts, run over my hair-roughened chest and she moans, low in her throat. Her nipples are puckered and hard and I thrust against her and she whimpers, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she cries out and trembles, pleasure filling her in a way that is more erotic than just about anything I’ve ever known.
Fuck me sideways, she’s hot.
Her breathing is loud, tortured. Her mouth is hot, and she drops it to my shoulder first, nipping the flesh there with her teeth before dragging it lower, to my chest. She finds a nipple and flicks it; my dick jerks in my pants.
I bring my hands around and cup her arse, pressing her against me, and then slide a hand in front of her, finding her clit, and then her seam, pushing inside her, rejoicing at the feel of her muscles, so tight, so wet, so hot. I swirl my finger around her and she whimpers and then her hands are on my belt and she’s moving away from me, she’s looking at me with white-hot hunger as she pushes her thong down her thighs and steps out of it, then rips my jeans apart, pushing them.
She works fast, but not fast enough. The second I’m naked I feel like it’s taken ten years to reach this stage, but hell, it was worth it.
I’m desperate to roll her onto her back, to take over, but there’s that look in her eyes that speaks of a desperation, as though she’s proving something to herself, and far be it from me to stand in the way of whatever challenge she’s facing.
We’ve only got one night, but I plan on using the whole night, every goddamned minute, to enjoy Grace as much as I can before I leave. This first time, though, it’s like slaking a ghost. There’s a need humming through her that’s more than just physical.
‘Condom?’ she asks, panting, her eyes sheened with the haze of her desperation. For a second I’m jarred out of this sexual fog and into reality because I was very close to forgetting to use protection and I would have said, until two minutes ago, that safe sex is reflexive for me—as much so as brushing my teeth or walking my dog.
‘Yeah.’ I push out of bed, using the chance to get rid of my jocks, and reach for my wallet. I always travel prepared, even though I didn’t come here expecting this. Seeing those divorce papers made me contemplate celibacy.
Briefly.
Her eyes are devouring me, my ink, my muscles. I watch her watching me and wonder what her ex was like. It’s a thought out of nowhere; it doesn’t belong. I shove it aside, using my mouth to tear open the wrapper, and then unfurl the rubber over my length. Slowly, so slowly it’s almost agonising, but I want to pay her back a little for her own sensual tease. I cover my dick and keep my palm wrapped around the base of my cock.
Her breath is the only sound in the room, hot little rasps that make me feel like I could come any minute. And then she’s moving towards me, around the bed, her beautiful naked body something I’d love to just stare at, but, instead, she barrels against me and her mouth finds mine, hot and insistent, determined. Sweet Jesus, we haven’t kissed before and this is all so backwards that only now, after I’ve had my finger inside of her, do I realise she’s a great fucking kisser.
If we’d kissed in the bar I would have known this would happen—you can tell a lot about your chemistry with someone from the way you kiss, and this kiss is burning me up. Or maybe it’s the feel of her generous, soft breasts pressed against my chest, or the little moaning noises she’s making.
Fuck me.
I lift her arm, needing more of her, all of her, and wrap her legs around my waist, just needing to be as close as possible to her, and spin her so her back is against the wall. My desperate, hungry cock nudges at her rear without design and she arches her back, breaking our kiss for a second but giving me access to her breasts. My mouth, my ravenous, seeking mouth, drops to her nipple and sucks it inwards. Rolling my tongue over her swollen nipple, tracing it, sucking it, my hand seeks the pleasure of the weight of her other breast.
I feel it in my palm, my fingers brushing over her nipple, and she’s crying my name and it feels so good to hear her say it I am bursting inside. Fuck this, I need her. No. I have a ravenous need for all of her; all she offers I will take and take again.
But there’s heartbreak in the room, too, and as I pull away from her, kissing my way up her chest towards her throat, where I flick her pulse with my tongue, I ask, ‘You’re sure?’
Because I’m not a total arse, and she’s mourning her ex and using sex to deal with that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be used, but I want to hear that she’s sure before we
