Page 88 of David

The harder he does it, the harder I grip his shoulders, the harsher my nails sink into his back.

Just as I teeter on the edge, he reaches down, unzips his pants, and pulls out his erection.

I don’t have time to gape at it when he nudges me up and holds it before pulling me down to fill up my center.

A puddle forms between my legs as he slides in. It feels like heaven. I can’t look at him right now to search for a connection or a meaning.

My back is curved, my chest pushed out, my hands latched onto his shoulders.

I roll my lip between my teeth as the last remnant of embarrassment crumbles.

He feels so good he shouldn’t be the important man he is.

He shouldn’t be more than some random guy I picked up at a bar or met at the library.

The stranger I ran into by accident.

The man who looked all right when the circumstances worked in our favor as we exchanged a few words and realized neither of us had had sex in a while.

The man who showed up at the right time when we didn’t ask any questions, yet we both knew that his place was somehow nearby.

The man who invited me inside for a cup of coffee, where we started fucking in the hallway before having the chance to take our clothes off.

The man who made the simplistic approach possible because we knew we wouldn’t run into each other again.

That’s how good David Moore feels.

Like there is nothing on the line.

As if nasty complications aren't looming in the distance, and there are no hard feelings and icky issues to deal with in the aftermath if we happen to meet again.

I grind on him, his hands guiding me while gripping my waist.I’m so turned on I might come without him touching my clit.

The lubrication is so good, and he is so hard, the chiseled tip of his erection rubbing every bit of sensitive trail inside me.

I’m in peril with this man, yet I choose not to think about it.

As I finally push back all these thoughts, I remember Rain’s book.

That’s the thing with these little books.

They outlast our feelings and stories, floating in the collective mind, carrying their little bits of naughtiness across time and space.

I’m channeling some sex goddess, moving my hips, enjoying every bit of pleasure, still trying not to put out more than what I’ve already let out.

My breaths are ragged and shallow, and he can tell how much I like it by how harsh and passionate my moves become.

I take him deep, with hunger, reveling in the hardness filling me up to the brim.

And then I open my eyes and look down, covered in sweat and smelling like sex and a hint of shampoo.

With his head pushed back and his shoulders pressed into the couch, he looks at me through long dark lashes, a smile tugging at his lips, sweat glistening on his upper lip as his gemstone gaze cuts through my soul.

That is his power right there.

He knew that sooner or later, he’d have me riding his hard, chiseled length, all sweaty and hungry.

He seems pleasantly surprised, as if he didn’t think I’d have it in me.

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