“I’m going to bang you so hard everyone in the hotel will here you scream.”
Like I’m not making that sort of noise already.
I can’t hold it in, not when he’s teasing my clit from the inside like that, not when my need is so great, it’s driven me up onto tip-toes and my thighs are like jelly from straining to inch my hips that bit closer to his.
“I don’t want to wait. Fuck me.”
“Let me get dressed for the occasion.”
That involves a stumbling journey into the bedroom, during which he sheds his jeans and I finally get to admire him completely naked.
Fuck! The sight of his body alone is enough to turn me to treacle. He’s built like a runner, hard and lean. There are knots of muscles on his thighs, abs and arms. His back, one side and the whole of one arm is covered with bright tattoos—butterflies and skulls interwoven with snakes. It’s a good thing I’m not freaked by creepy-crawlies. A scarab-like beetle sits on the curve of his left arse-cheek, seemingly about to scurry into the crack.
There’s one bit of him that fascinates me more than all his body paint though. There’s just something so primal and visceral about a rock hard cock pointing at you like an accusation.
Watching a man roll a condom over his shaft has never been more erotic and excruciating at the same time. I love the way his long fingers dance, making the sheath sit just right, but simultaneously, I’m too desperate to wait and genuinely appreciate the show.
“Come here,” he beckons, back to the wall, once he’s finished putting on his raincoat.
I wish I had time to snap his photograph. A naked man against a magnolia wall shouldn’t make for extraordinary art, but it’s the best landscape I’ve ever seen.
The moment I’m close enough, he grabs hold of me, rolls us, so that it’s me with my back against the wall. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, holds me right up off the floor as if I’m flying. I expect him to just shove his cock right into me and take what he wants, but he doesn’t. He notches the head like he’s contemplating the fit, then tugs me on like a goddamned glove.
I keen like a frickin banshee.
Someone, somewhere nearby has just heard the siren call of their death.
I squeeze him tight with my muscles, pulling him that bit deeper. In turn, he lifts me higher, then peels me away from the wall and turns so that the bed is behind us.
Hot breath. Hot musk. The scent of me. The scent of us. He’s all sweat and muscle, and raw, angry power. He hates me. I can feel it in the way he drives himself deep, and the way his breath hisses between his teeth. This is all about conquering me and trying to extinguish what’s burning so frickin brightly where our bodies and love of music meet. It won’t work. I know that, because I hate him too for making me want him when it’s stupid to do so. I hate him and I’m drawn to him at the same time. We’re too alike, too ambitious, both too desperate for what Graham Callahan is offering–that boost up to the next level. Whatever it takes…And yet, here we are, our bodies moving in perfect sync, hearts providing the underlying beat, the slap our bodies make when they meet, providing percussion, while our wails and scorched breaths fill out the rest of the melody. And in my head, I have the perfect bass-line. The one that’s going to make me a mint, as soon as I find the chords and accompanying sounds to go with it.
“Lie back.”
Lie back? I’m suspended in mid-fucking-air.
“Come on, Love. Don’t tell me you’re not going to dance the dance with me.”
I have no clue what he’s talking about, and I’m not wholly convinced the position he’s coaxing me into is going to result in anything other than an injury, but given how much I’m risking already being here, what’s one more leap of faith?
I hold onto his shoulders and lean back to the full stretch of my arms. It’s not far enough. My grip slides over his biceps, down to the crooks of his arms, and then to his wrists.
“Lie back,” he says again, as he clasps hold of my hands, and I do. I trust him, which is damned fucking crazy of me. The result sees my head lower than his knees. The bed is nearby, but just out of reach, though I could probably grab hold if I absolutely needed to.
“Now let go.” He shakes his hands free of mine, and grasps me firmly above the hips, supporting my lower back.
I’ve never felt so topsy-turvy, but once my hands hit the floor, I’m a little more balanced. I guess it’s a good thing I’m flexible.
“Best position ever.”
He may have a point. A few seconds of being inverted and I’m woozy as hell, but the rush when he moves inside of me is intense.
It’s not what I’d call a deep position, but what it lacks in that department, it makes up for in thrills.
He sinks to his knees when I’m on the edge of delirium, orgasm is looming large on the horizon and the pressure in my head has become another layer to the music we’re making together.
I could lie still, let him do the rest of the work, but actually, I want him close. I want to get my hands on him, scratch, bite, dig my nails into the muscles of his thighs and flanks. I want him so close that my breasts are squashed up against the broad expanse of his chest. When he comes—when I come, I don’t want there to be more than a millimetre of space between us.
“Jeezus woman, you feel so fucking good.” He makes some little crooning noises that totally back up his words. We slow into a steady, smooth, roll together, staring at one another, mouths hanging open. “Shouldn’t feel this good.”
