Alex pushes up on his arms. I get an awesome view of his broad chest and the treasure trail leading to monster cock land. He seems unsure of himself. “Sorry. I’m sorry. We don’t have to have sex. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll feel bad about later.”
When he says those kinds of things, paired with his earlier comment, I want to be his love slave. An image of me in a black corset wearing a collar with a leash attached to it pops into my head. Maybe stupid Lydia was right to cut the smut from the book club for a while.
“I won’t feel bad.” I’m pretty sure I’ll feel good, actually.
“You’re sure?” Alex trails his fingers down my side.
“Positive.” I’m still holding his cock; it’s still massively hard.
“I should take you upstairs.”
I have no desire to stop touching him long enough to make the trip upstairs. “I’m good here. I like your couch.” They seem like good luck charms where Alex is concerned.
“My bed is more comfortable, and there’s more room.” He drops his head into the hollow of my throat, his lips touching my skin.
“I’m sure you’re right, but then we’d have to stop doing what we’re doing.”
“You make a good point.”
Alex reaches behind me, and with a quick flick, he opens the clasp and tosses my bra on the floor. My panties follow.
I slide his pants over his hips. His cock pops out, nearly smacking me in the face. I bob and weave to avoid getting poked in the eye by his swinging dick. My lack of coordination is an unfortunate issue, and I inadvertently whack it.
Alex bows forward, swearing. I grab his dick to avoid additional mishaps and apologize for beating on the monster cock. It’s level with my boobs. I have an idea. He seems to have an extreme fascination with my chest. Keeping my eyes on his, I circle a nipple with the tip.
One second he’s all soft and tender and “is this okay?” and “are you sure?” The next he’s got my hair wrapped around his fist. His body is wound tighter than a coiled snake ready to strike, which is fitting since I’m rubbing his “snake” on my boobs.
“You can’t even . . .”
I run the head of his cock across the valley to the opposite nipple. He angles my head to the side and takes my mouth as I stroke him. Alex deepens the kiss until I’m dizzy, and breathing seems like an unimportant function. Bearing down, he covers my body with his. No longer able to maintain hand-to-cock contact, I use my feet to push his pants down to his calves. There are a few awkward moments where he struggles to kick them off, and I ineffectively attempt to help with my toes.
Impatient, Alex uses his free hand to get them the rest of the way off. We both sigh with relief when he settles between my legs again. He’s right there, hot and thick, eliciting one of my porn moans. That’s before he starts with the controlled glide.
Skimming the length of his arm, I tug gently on his wrist. He’s been fisting my hair like reins.
“Sorry.” He massages my scalp.
“S’okay. I’ve been reading a lot of Dom-sub stuff in my book club lately.”
Hair pulling isn’t even close to the same thing. It’s not like he’s tied me up and makes me call him Sir or Master.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.”
I knead his ass to distract him; otherwise I’m liable to start ending sentences with Mr. Waters.
It seems to work. Alex’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open as we rub against each other. I run my hands up his back, appreciating all those tight, hard muscles.
His lips are close to my ear, his voice soft. “You feel so good.”
I remember getting it on with my first ever long-term boyfriend in high school. The progression from dry humping to naked humping happened in stages.
We’d get mostly naked—the pants might come off and the shirts stay on—and line our parts up. Then we’d slide against each other without really having any fucking clue as to how to get each other off. In all the uncoordinated wet humping, the slip-and-bump would happen. Everything would stop. We’d look at each other and ask the question: “Just the tip?” It almost always led to the-whole-damn-thing.
This is what happens. Except Alex’s tip is beer-can wide. Okay, it’s not that thick, but it’s close. The sensation is a teaser, like one of those tiny spoonfuls of ice cream they give out before committing to a whole cone. I’ve already eaten Alex’s cone before, so I know exactly how good it’s going to be.
What I do next is highly irresponsible on so many levels. My justification is this: I’ve been on the pill since high school, Alex isn’t the hockey whore I assumed he was, and the gyno results came back clean.
All objections I may have die on my tongue as I dig my fingernails into his rock-solid ass and push down with my heels. He’s halfway in, give or take a couple of inches. His head snaps up and his face registers desire-hazed alarm. “No condom!”