I’m panting, opening and closing my fists at my sides, wracked with insecurities. Any second now, I expect Thomas to reject me, to send me home, but he stands there like a statue, staring at my body. His chest is heaving and his frame is tight, too tight, too brittle.
While kissing me, he tore my clothes away in a mad desperation. It was frenzied and urgent, and now they lie in a pile by the door. Here I am, displayed in front of his eyes, and I’m going crazy with the wait, with the embarrassment and arousal.
He walks closer to me; putting his hand on my cheek, he tips my face up and makes me stare at his gaze. I see desire lurking there and my heart skips a beat.
He wants me. So fucking much.
As if to prove it, he leans down and resumes kissing me. This time it’s even hungrier and more urgent, if that’s possible. I lean into his clothed body, my skin brushing over the warm fabric. It makes me wet and horny and so powerless that I’m exposed and he’s not.
It makes me feel like a slut. His slut. Horny and shameless.
For the next however many minutes, Thomas becomes my lifeline. He breathes air into me through his mouth, feeds me his lust with his lips. I’m slowly getting drunk on him. My blood is replaced by his essence, until all I feel is him.
He lifts me up, grinding our pelvises together, and my legs instantly go around his waist. His palms splay over my bare ass and I jerk in his arms. I’m so lost in his kisses that I don’t mind when the world tips on its axis, and I find myself lying on my back on the coarse grey carpet.
Thomas breaks the kiss and raises himself up, kneeling between my spread thighs. He’s so fucking sexy that I can’t help but inhale a sharp breath at his beauty.
Swallowing, he takes me in, starting from the dark hair spread out around my face and neck. He travels down, his eyes caught at the base of my throat. My pulse pounds so I feel it beating against my skin. Then he goes lower, to the valley of my small breasts. I feel a tiny piece of my heart beating at the tips of my nipples.
By the time he reaches my vibrating stomach, he is drenched in sweat and shaking. The vein on the side of his neck stands taut, as if in arousal, just like his cock, which juts out in his pants. I bite my lip at the pain it must be causing him.
“I-I want to see you,” I whisper, watching a thick drop of sweat roll off the side of his forehead. “Please.”
I can’t imagine not seeing him when he fucks me for the first time. He understands the gravity of my need and unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt. He fists the back of the white, slightly wrinkled fabric and yanks it right off, throwing it away.
“That’s so fucking sexy,” I moan and roll my hips on the floor. A slut—yeah, that’s what I am for him, writhing and naked.
The side of his lips tips up in an arrogant smirk, but it does nothing to banish the intensity of his expression. Unlike him, I’m impatient, and I take him in, in a hurried fashion. The tight planes of his pectorals covered by just the right amount of hair. The grooves of his ribs giving way to his smooth, hard abdomen. That trail of thick hair leading to the huge bump barely contained by his blue jeans.
I gasp as I realize the significance of his attire: blue jeans and white shirt, just like the song I love so much.
“What?” he asks, his arms on either side of my hips, his palms splayed open on the carpet. I watch the dance of the muscles on his shoulders and arms. They are strung so tight right now.
“Nothing. You just…remind me of a song I love.”
“Yeah? What song is that?”
“‘Blue Jeans,’” I say. “Uh, it’s by Lana Del Rey. It’s…It’s about how she can’t look away when he walks into a room, about how much he makes her burn.”
Thomas crawls on top of me, his strong arms walking from my hips to either side of my head. He lowers himself as if preparing to do a pushup, and the tendons on his neck stand out in stark relief.
“I know what’s it about,” he whispers over my mouth, his entire body whispering over mine, not touching but looming like a shadow.
I rub my naked thighs over his bare sides, making him shudder. His head dips as his eyes close at my touch, telling me he likes it. I like it too. His skin is smooth and so fucking hot to the touch. I knew it would be. I knew it. He is my fire-breather.
“Are you going to fuck me now?” Need has made my voice both husky and small.
His face remains bowed; only his gaze moves up to me. “Yeah.”
With that, he pushes up and stands over me, divesting himself of his jeans and underwear.
And then he is naked, like me, his cock thrusting out of his body, so big and long and oh God, I’m going to hyperventilate from how much I want it inside me and how much it’s going to stretch my little hole out when it does get inside me.
What if it stretches your hole so much that it hurts?
I hear his words from the other day and decide I don’t care. I want him.
I want to study his cock more, study him more, his taut thighs, the runner’s calves, analyze all the ways the light is hitting his sleek, cut body—but he isn’t in the mood to model for me. He crashes down on his knees, much like last night when I showed him my tattoo.
His desperation leaches into his movements as he fumbles for his discarded jeans, and fishes out a condom from his back pocket.
My mouth dries out as he sits on his haunches and rolls the condom over his hard, jutting shaft, and then he covers me with his body.
I halt all movements, breathing evenly to absorb the sensation of his bare muscles rubbing against mine. It feels so good. His skin on my skin. His cock tucked between us, pressing against my belly button.
But I want more. I need it.
I arch under him, making his cock throb between us, and he clenches his teeth. He grabs a chunk of my hair in his fists and stares down at me. There’s anger and satisfaction in his eyes. “You can’t stay still, can you? You can’t stop tempting me for one fucking second.”
“No, I can’t,” I admit. “I don’t know how.”
“You’re always hungry, Layla. Always starving.” He rocks into me, drags his weighty arousal against my stomach, and blows a breath into the nape of my neck. “Why’s that? Huh? Why are you such a cock-hungry girl?”
I moan at his dirty words. God, he’s such a poet, speaking filthy poetry to me.
“I don’t know. I just want it so much. I want your cock.” I mimic his action and fist his hair in a hard grip, my voice begging. “Put it in me, please. My pussy is so hungry for it.”
I don’t really know where it came from, but Thomas makes me so wild. He feels so right above me that wrong words taste like sugar in my mouth.
Thomas’ control snaps and he rears back, forcing me to let go of him. His body arches, the muscles slanting taut, and I see every tight, hard curve of his chest and abdomen. He fists his cock and positions it in front of my entrance. “Then I’ll fucking feed it to her.”
He forces his way in with a long grunt. My back bows off the floor and I hunker down on his cock with a pained scream, my nails digging into the rough carpet.