And attack her mouth.
That’s the only accurate description of how my lips crash down over hers. How my tongue thrusts its way inside her like a conquering army laying siege to a fortified castle. Not that she’s just accepting this claiming. Hell no, she meets me stroke for stroke, lick for lick, suck for suck. It’s mortal combat, and we’re both taking no prisoners.
I’ve never been this close to coming from a kiss. A not-so-simple, incendiary kiss, but still… I can’t get enough of her, of the moans that trickle from her throat, of the demanding twists and licks.
Impatient for more, I angle my head and lift the hand not woven into her strands to her chin, pinching it and tugging her mouth open wider for me. Then I dive deeper. Take more. Twist and tangle my tongue around hers. The slick slip-and-slide has my gut clenching and pulling tight as if each sexual glide is another yank on my steadily unraveling control.
Damn, hertaste. It’s an erotic confection of dirty promises made in the dark, of whispered fantasies…of the filthiest sex. She’s sweetness and musk. She’s water for the dying man and painful greed for the starving one.
In this one moment, she’s become that elusive high that’s forever chased but usually unattainable. But one I’ll willingly crash and burn pursuing.
Her teeth sink into my bottom lip, and the minute sting drags a rough grunt from me that’s more animalistic than human. She sweeps the tip of her tongue over the slightly abused flesh, then delivers a small flick to each corner of my mouth, my chin, my jaw. Every caress is a lick of flame over my chest, stomach, cock. I’m strung tighter than a notched arrow ready and eager to be loosed. It won’t take much to make me snap…
She slips her hand under my shirt, stroking over the hypersensitive skin of my back. Nails rake over the muscle there, and it isn’t tender or hesitant. Like her kiss, the touch is pleasure edged in pain, demanding. A dare to come for more. If I have the balls.
That last tether of restraint snaps like an old, brittle rubber band.
I take her mouth again, devouring it as I shuffle her backward until her spine meets the wall. My hands tear open the belt and few buttons holding her coat closed, shoving inside and cupping the slightly more-than-a-handful tits that have been tormenting me with mental images of how they would look and taste. Firm, but weighed down a bit by their fullness. Nipples the color of ripe, rich berries. Taste like the apples-and-roses scent that teases my nose even now. As an artist, I have a very vivid imagination, and with her, it’s a blessing and a curse.
A groan rumbles out of me as I squeeze and mold her flesh. An answering low rumble of sound rolls out of her mouth, mingling with mine. She arches into my touch, her other hand releasing my shirt and joining its twin on my back. Her lashes flutter, lowering, hiding her eyes from me. But the parting of her lips and the greedy little swipe of her tongue over her bottom lip conveys her pleasure. As does the full-body shiver that quakes through her.
Jesus, she’s soft. Except for the tips that get the sweep of my thumbs across them. Those are diamond-hard, and my mouth damn near aches with the need to get my tongue wrapped around them. Discover their texture, determine if she loves long, lazy licks, abrupt stabs, or even the graze of my teeth.
“Tell me I’m making these tight and aching, not the cold.” I tweak the peaks with my forefingers and thumbs in emphasis. “Tell me you want my mouth on you, tasting these gorgeous tits with my tongue, and getting you wet and hurting.” I study her face as if I’m lost and she’s the road map leading me to my destination. In this second, the need for her answer, her go-ahead, is as vital to me as my tattoo machine or ink.
“Yes.” She gives another of those sexy growls and, lifting her arms, tunnels her fingers through my hair. I lock my jaw against the bite of pain across my scalp, loving it. Craving more of it.
“Say the rest of it,” I order, as steel that is the result of the clawing pleasure attacking my dick infiltrates my voice. Bowing my head, I drag my lips up her throat, pausing to nip the tendon running the length of it hard enough to elicit another of those feral sounds from her. My hips punch forward, grinding my cock against her belly. “Fuck,” I snap before retreating a fraction, just enough to allow air between our bodies. “Say it.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair, tugging hard enough to sting. As if punishing me for daring to order her to do anything. Goddamn. Would she challenge me about pushing her to her knees, or would she swallow my dick to the back of her throat? My heart thumps against my chest at just the thoughts, and a surge of lust has me momentarily light-headed. I’ve never insisted on control during sex; as long as who I’m with gets theirs, and I get mine, I’m good. But with her… That fight for dominance pumps the breath from my lungs in heavy, hard rasps. With her, I would enjoy the battle.
“Put your mouth on me,” she finally says, wearing a hint of a snarl. She might be giving me back my words, but by no mistake is this a plea; it’s an issued command heavy with full expectation of obedience. “Fuck me with your tongue.” She jerks on my hair again, and it’s me who’s complying as I lower my head. “And make it good,” she whispers against my lips.
I briefly close my eyes, silently muttering a prayer that I don’t maul her like a wild beast or, worse, come before I even get a chance to touch her bare skin. Somehow, I manage not to commit either sin, but her murmured demand made it a close call. She might as well have reached down inside my jeans, wrapped her hand around my dick, and delivered a hard, rough pump. Just the way I love it.
Without breaking our locked gazes, I bend, cup the backs of her thighs, and hike her higher. Shifting forward, I pin her between the wall and my body, wedging my cock between her thighs, snug and tight against her denim-covered sex.
It’s probably my imagination that I can feel her soft flesh cushioning me. Can feel the damp heat of her sex warming me. Either my imagination or my desperation.
Neither stops me from grinding my dick over her. From rolling my hips forward over and over, dragging my cockhead over her clit. My zipper digs into my flesh, and the dull edge of pain perversely intensifies the pleasure, taking it from technicolor to HD.
Her fingers curl into my shoulders, and she hangs on to me—but for leverage, not for support. With every stroke, she lifts into it, giving as good as she’s getting. Her low whimpers and rough pants punctuate the air and tighten the vise grip on my balls. In all the years since I started fucking, I’m sure there must have been a woman who unraveled my control like scissors taken to a weathered rope. This waitress with the soul-deep, shadowed eyes, sinful mouth, and damn-a-man-to-hell curves can’t be the exception. I’m sure of it… But even if I was under threat of torture by water boarding, I can’t recall that time.
Lifting her higher and dipping my head, I latch onto a nipple through her shirt, drawing on it, material and all, dampening both. Even with cotton separating me from her flesh, the hard nub is perfect in my mouth. I graze my teeth over her, and her choked scream is a dirty little ditty to my ears. A small, dark thrill runs through the illogical, primitive part of my brain. And that part takes a corrupted joy in her walking back into that bar, shirt wet, telegraphing to every person who sets eyes on her that she allowed me to put my hands, my mouth, my dick on her. Not them. Me. They get to look, but I’m the one who gets to touch.
I should be appalled at the possessive thought; it’s so out there, it should have me setting her down to her feet and backing away. It should. Instead I open my mouth wider, suck firmer, dry-fuck harder.
Suddenly impatient and with greed one bitch of a task master, I raise one hand to the wall next to her head and lower the other to the V-neck of her shirt, tugging down the collar and revealing golden skin that gleams even in the weak light of the alley. Anticipation winds through the lust like a shimmering thread, and I almost drag out this moment. But I’m not that strong. And my dick is that hard.
A hard yank, and her tit pops over the top of the shirt. Damn. My groan rumbles up out of me before I can trap it. Not that I particularly want to. I like her knowing what the sight of her does to me. Just as I hoard every one of those little keening cries, serrated puffs of breath, and jerk of her hips as my reward.
“So goddamn beautiful,” I praise against her flesh, raking a berry-colored nipple across my bottom lip. Then my top. I lick it, then go back for seconds, enjoying more than I should the texture of her thick, rounded peak. Enjoying the stiffness of it that is a result of what I’m doing to her. Cupping her, I offer her as a gift to myself, and I take it. Tasting, teasing, feasting. Worshipping.
Her hands skirt from my shoulders back to my head, nails pinching my scalp. She arches into me, back bowing, an unrestrained, uninhibited sexual animal. Her hips pump away in short, jerky strokes over my cock, and it doesn’t matter that I just met her less than an hour ago. I can tell she’s close. My sole purpose for existing suddenly executes a one-eighty, and tattooing, family, and work take a back seat to making her come. To making her sex clench and quiver. To having her body shake. To hearing her scream my name, even though I never gave it to her.
Hauling down the other side of her shirt, I free more of her, pulling the neglected tip into my mouth, showing her no mercy.
“God, please, please, please…” The broken litany of prayer falls from her, and she uses me like a stripper works a pole, sliding, grinding, lifting, and dropping…
