Sinful Desire

His chest rose and fell as he drank her in. He wasn’t even touching her, but her skin sizzled. She felt touched. Then he brushed his fingertips along her sides. She let her legs fall open for him, spreading herself, as she hooked her heels on to the bottom rung. Pressing her palms on the back of the stool to hold on, she arched her spine, offering her body to him.

Placing herself in his hands.

Giving herself to him.

“Look at you. Just fucking look at you. What you just did. You are killing me,” he murmured, as he cupped her cheek in his right hand. “You’re all I thought about all day. Seeing you. Touching you. Tasting you. Having you,” he said, stroking her cheek. He paused, his voice rough with desire. “And fucking you.”

He swept his lips over hers in a deep, devouring, hungry kiss. His tongue searched hers, and she let him lead. When he broke the kiss, she said softly, “Do whatever you want to me.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Everything,” he said. “I want to do everything to you, Sophie. I want to explore every inch of you. I want to taste all of you. I want to fuck you everywhere. But right now?” he said, taking his time as if each word tasted magnificent, “I want your sweetness on my tongue.”

She gasped as heat raced through her body. “I want that, too.”

“Keep your hands right where they are. Behind you,” he said, and she nodded.

Dipping his hands under the front of her apron, he tugged at her panties, and pulled them to her ankles, then off. He hooked her high-heeled shoes firmly back into the rung, a clear sign she had to keep them in place. “I need to taste you every day. I can’t go this long without you on my lips,” he said, kneeling on the floor then burying his face between her legs.

She squeezed her eyes shut and cried out in pleasure, her voice becoming the harmony to Billie Holiday as Ryan licked and sucked and tasted. If she wasn’t allowed to move her body, she could use her mouth. She could rely on her voice. She could scream and moan and groan. And so she did, because every lick, every touch, every press of his tongue against her hot, wet * drove her wild.

“It’s so good,” she cried out, and he looked ravenous as he licked up her slickness, as he flattened his tongue against her clit then sucked on that swollen bundle of nerves until she screamed.

Her orgasm crested. She saw it rising up on the horizon.

He moaned against her center then pulled back. “Grab my head. Use your hands. Do whatever you want,” he said, giving her a command. Somewhere in her home she heard her ringtone. “Fly me to the Moon.” Seemed appropriate.

Her hands flew into his hair, and she laced her fingers through those soft strands, for the first time touching him as he licked her. She’d longed for this chance. She loved being restrained, but she loved his hair, too. She grasped harder, her nails curling into his skull. He groaned, a mad, feral sound as she dug into his head, and she knew, she fucking knew that he wanted her to be rough right now. That he wanted her to show him how she felt about the way he touched her.

She felt like an animal.

Wild and crazed.

She held onto his head, yanking his mouth closer. She was on fire, a white-hot path of flames tearing through her body, burning everything in sight, turning her into an inferno as he fucked her * with his lips, his mouth, his tongue, and she rode his face until she saw stars, until the heavens fell from the sky and she came in his mouth.

Shuddering.

Trembling.

Shaking from head to toe.

Clutching his face between her legs as she rocked into him.

Soon enough, she uncurled her hands from his hair. Everything around them smelled like food, and sex, and chemistry, and peaches.

He reached into the bowl on the island, grabbed a slice of peach, and brought it to his lips. He ate it and then said, “It’s good.”

He grabbed another piece of a peach. He pulled down the top of her apron, exposing her red bra then unhooking it. He dragged the peach slice across her tits. “Let me taste it like this,” he said, then dipped his head between her breasts and licked up the juice from her body.

“So good. But it doesn’t even compare to you,” he murmured against her chest, and she moaned happily from his words and his touch.

She’d never been one for food play, only because she’d never had this type of sex. But Ryan licking the taste of a ripe peach from her white skin felt like the way sex should be. It felt primal, an elemental connection between a woman who wanted a man and a man who had to have her. Nothing else at play but this red-hot, sinful desire that burned between them. She grabbed his head and pulled him to her breasts.

“That’s enough of you being able to use your hands,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he picked her up and carried her to her dining room table. She’d set it earlier for the two of them. A large wood table, one half of it was uncovered. He set her down on it, and began undoing her apron strings.

“Ryan?” she whispered in a question.

He looked at her, waiting.

“Do you remember what you said at the slot machine, what you wanted to do to me?” She gazed down to her breasts.

He pressed a finger to her lips. “I told you I would never forget your perfect tits. Do you think I have?”

She shook her head.