Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(30)
His hands, expert and sure, continue easing off my shirt. He misses nothing as he strips my panties down my legs. He unhooks my bra, peeling it off my wet skin. His eyes sweep over me, approving and adoring. And then his hands stroke over my naked shape, drying me.
He ducks his head. His tongue flicks my earlobe, and then he turns my chin and he slides his lips over mine.
“Dibs on my wife,” he rasps, and kisses my mouth, completely and thoroughly. I moan. His hands spread on my back, bringing me close to his naked body as he drops a fervent kiss on the back of my ear. “Dibs on this ear.”
I laugh, so hot and bothered, my arms clench reflexively around his neck. Quakes overtake me as he runs his hands, flat and smooth, all over my curves, drying me some more.
He looks at me with this little smile when the sensations of his touch make me gasp, and his eyes are sparks of heat fixed on my face. They look so heavy, his eyes, his lashes dark, sweeping downward as he dips his head and drags his lips sinuously along my neck, to my collarbone, my shoulders, toward my very pulse point, now fluttering in the nook where the gold R and M necklaces lay nestled.
His tongue dips into the nook and he no doubt tastes the rain there. I shiver, uncontrollably, as the heat inside my body rises. My fingers trail up the wet muscles of his arms.
His lips seduce and sear my damp skin as they roam over my jaw, to my ear, and then head back to my mouth. My hands roam the grooves of his back, damp too. Then he takes my wrists and pulls my hands to my sides, walks me back, and rests them on the wall.
He interlaces our fingers, his grip strong as anchors, and starts to kiss my lips, softly. His body’s still wet, but mine has been dried by his hands. I push upward to feel him, rubbing my breast against his flat chest, the wet making me ache.
“I need . . . god, I need you so much,” I gasp in his ear.
He eases back. He loves foreplay, and he seems determined to make it last. He strokes the knuckles of one hand down my face. “Good so far?”
I’m suddenly overcome with butterflies inside.
I press my nose into his neck and close my eyes and let myself enjoy his fabulously manly smell. “Good. Get closer, Malcolm, please.”
My hands snake up the back of his neck, into his wet hair. His hands rub up my back. Before I know it, I tip my head back, he ducks his, and our lips are fusing together. I press myself to him, wanting him to devour me.
He lifts me to a table, his lids halfway down his eyes as he drinks me in.
Then my tongue is tracing his nipples; first one, in a neat wet circle, then the other. He reaches to brush the wet tendrils of my hair back and peers with intimate intensity into my face while my fingers trail down the ripples of his abs, toward the perfect V that dips into the mat of hair where his massive erection greets me.
“Did you miss me like I missed you, Rachel?” he whispers, cradling my breasts with his hands, thumbs tweaking. Sparks shoot off in me as I hold him in my hand.
I breathlessly nod. “So much.”
I’ve had sex but it’s crazy with him. I’m feverish. He’s calm and collected, but he’s so wired for me, his body hums and crackles with electricity.
He’s hard and ready, the head of his lovely dick already wet, and I nibble his throat as I reach around his lean hips and grab part of his ass to get him closer.
When I rub his erection with the heel of my palm, he mock-chides, “All right, you’re playing dirty now,” lifts me up in his arms, walks us to the room, then lowers me on the plushest bed I’ve ever lain on.
He parts my legs with his hands, urging the inside of my thighs to fall open, and I grow even more restless when his green eyes settle on the part where I most ache.
“You,” I plead. “Not your fingers or your tongue.”
But my Saint is a Sinner, as we’ve already established.
He recklessly dives his head and explores me with his tongue a little, four deep, delicious strokes, then with his fingers, then he eases his hips between my parted legs. I throw my head back, a guttural sound in my throat. Our bodies light up, glowing like firestones.
When he slides the head inside, I rock wantonly and coax him to give me more.
He grabs my hip in one hand to hold me still.
“Oh god. You’re perfect,” I gasp.
He’s thick and huge and pulsing, stretching me. When I’m full enough to burst, squirming and digging my nails into his back and kissing his shoulders, he sets the rhythm. Slow first. The glide of his cock in and out of me wreaks havoc with my body. I start shivering, rubbing his muscles, sucking his jaw, making throaty, unintelligible sounds.
I absorb the feel of him with my hands and body. His powerful legs, his abs and ass as he thrusts, his arms and chest and shoulders as he takes me. And me, soft and warm. Wet and hot. I’m eroticized by the way Saint is spreading me open and making me his wife.
“Malcolm, I’m so hot.”
He groans and growls out, “Wet and hot and just how I like you.”
Soon we’re all instinct. Nails. Teeth. Sucking, kissing, biting, nibbling. He starts driving powerfully into me, f*cking me into the bed while I suck fiendishly at his thick, juicy lower lip. He moves his lips, his tongue coming to spar with mine. A fever overtakes us, our bodies pressing and grinding. As we taste and tongue each other, the muscles of his back strain and ripple under my fingers.
He slows the pace, and my toes curl from the pleasure. My body arches and strains as he takes his cock fully out and rubs the head along my folds, over my clit. My eyes roll into the back of my head. When he slides back inside me, I purl in gratitude. “Malcolm.” My eyes flutter open to see the tendons bulging on his neck, the harsh clamp of his jaw.