“Then don’t wait any longer,” she says, and I don’t. I do have something to prove, after all.
I lower my face, brushing across her mouth once, twice, three times before I firmly settle my lips against hers. For a minute, everything seems singularly slow and distinct: her small inhalations and exhalations tickling the skin above my upper lip, the way her hand finds the back of my neck to pull me even closer to her, the way my heart pounds in my chest as I cradle her face against mine. And then time catches up with us all in a rush, Devi’s fingers finding my hair and pulling, my hand dropping down past her hip. I ruck up her skirt until my hand finds the bare skin of her ass and then I’m grabbing and squeezing the delicious curve of firm flesh, my cock leaping every time my fingers dig into her skin.
She’s just as busy, her other hand finding the bottom of my shirt and then sliding up my stomach to trail lines of light scratches across my abs. I hiss as she finds a flat nipple and pinches it, the sensation traveling straight to my dick.
I deepen the kiss, parting her lips with mine and licking inside her mouth. It’s sweet, like the cotton candy she ate earlier, and warm—and like a lightning strike, I remember that she’s going to suck me off with that sweet, warm mouth, and I have to pull back for a second to clear my head.
“What?” she murmurs, using the break in the kiss to move her mouth to my neck, sucking and biting hard enough to bruise, and I have to wrap my hands around the brick ledge to keep from shoving her to her knees right then and there.
Keep control, you asshat.
After all, I am supposed to be proving something to her, right? Not simply proving how much I want her to go down on me. I’m going to prove to her how real and how organic we can be, even with the camera.
Resolve renewed, I take a step back. “Turn around,” I say, keeping my voice quiet to account for the people enjoying the art mere feet away.
Biting her lower lip, she pivots so that she’s facing the wall. I lean forward enough that my mouth comes close to her ear. “Brace your hands against the wall,” I whisper.
She shivers and more of those delightful goose bumps appear, and she obeys, her slender hands spread wide and flat against the brick. The thin dress she’s wearing has ridden up slightly in back, and I place a hand in the middle of her shoulder blades and push her forward even more, so that the hem of the dress barely clears her ass.
And then I drop down to my knees, my palms sliding up the back of her thighs to her rump. I inch the hem of her skirt up until she’s mostly uncovered and then I spread her cheeks to see a thin strip of lace covering her *. She’s wearing a thong, as white as fresh snow, and I get the most maddening glimpses of what that lace is hiding—tiny curlicues of glistening pink, small semi-circles of smooth bronze.
Without hesitation, I bury my face there, the flat of my tongue running over the lace to press against her clit. She gasps above me, her legs widening to grant me better access, and I oblige her unspoken request, repeating the motion over her clit and then moving my tongue to her entrance, she and I together thoroughly soaking the lace all the way through. I can taste her through the fabric, and the taste is a perfect balance of sweet and female, a taste that triggers all of my most primal, male impulses.
I hook a finger in her thong and pull it aside, and the moment my tongue makes unfettered contact with her cunt, she sucks in a breath and raises up on her tiptoes. Finger still holding the thong aside, I lick from her clit to the small button of firm flesh between her cheeks, and I repeat the process several times, until I can sense her breathing speeding up. Then I add a finger, then two, curling them against the sensitive front wall of her * as I bite and suck on her ass.
She’s breathing hard now, her thighs tense, and I abandon her entrance and start rubbing her clit fast and hard. She throws her head back, her fingers turning into claws against the brick, and then I withdraw. Completely.
She spins around, dazed and angry. “Don’t stop,” she pants, and I shrug with one shoulder. I bring my fingers to my mouth to suck her taste off them, and her eyes narrow. I do a little internal victory dance when she doesn’t glance at the camera once as she steps forward. I knew that to distract her from the filming would mean making her focus only on me, and making her angry and needy seemed like the best way to do that. Looks like I’ve succeeded.
“Finish me off,” she says in a furious plea.
“But you’re so cute when you’re angry.”
“Don’t fuck with me—finish fucking me.”
“What about,” I offer mischievously, “you give me head, and then I’ll think about finishing you off.”