Page 23 of Stocking Stuffers
That shocked a laugh out of her. “Oh, is that so, mister? Are you made of tree bark?”
“No. Ink.”
He stood suddenly, right as her greedy hands were reaching to rip his clothes off. Nothing got her hotter than tattoos.
She watched him as he fiddled with the record player. His back flexed as he lifted a record onto the stand. His shoulders were wide and strong, his waist narrow, his butt mouth-watering.
When he turned back toward her, she snapped her gaze up from his derrière.
He grinned. “Dance with me.”
“What? No.” That skirted way too close to romance for her.
Slow, sultry music filled the room. Eartha Kitt. At least it wasn’t her Christmas stuff.
“Come on. It’s foreplay.” He pulled her up off the couch and into his arms. For one terrifying second, everything in the world feltright. Feltgood. She melted against him. Maybe she could give in a little. Just until the end of the song.
Sasha pressed their bodies together, slid her hands under the hem of his flannel shirt until she could touch his hot skin, and brushed her mouth against his bearded jaw. His hands threaded into her hair.
The song was in French, and she had no idea what the words meant, but it was full of tenderness and yearning. She kissed him, trying to stem the rising tide of longing rushing in her blood. They swayed to the beat.
“What’s in the pocket of your sweatshirt?” he murmured against her lips. “Feels like a dick.”
“It is.”
He kissed her harder, the slick, suggestive thrust of his tongue into her mouth weakening her knees. His hand snuck into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie, then tossed the dildo onto the couch.
“What’s in your sweatpants pockets?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said tartly, as she unbuttoned the top buttons of his flannel shirt, then lifted it over his head.
His skin glowed golden in the dim light of the attic, and she sluiced her hands over the muscles of his shoulders and back. He lifted one large palm up to grip her jaw and hold her steady as he kissed her. She caught a one-second glimpse of a tatted arm sleeve in muted, earthy colors. His other hand crept under her sweatshirt and trembled down the line of her spine.
They rocked through one whole song, then another, their mouths fused together. Sasha was dizzy with want by the time Perry slid her sweatshirt over her head. As she pulled back to catch a breath, his arms still tangled around her, she got a better glimpse of his tattoos. His arm sleeve was all wildflowers, and he had a large magenta peony on his ribs.
She pressed a hand to the peony, and he gasped.
He was beautiful. His chest and stomach were rough with dark hair, his lips wet from their kisses, his cheeks flushed.
They kissed and touched for the space of another song, their skin pressed together, until Sasha couldn’t handle it anymore.
She pulled away. “I need … God, Perry.”
Perry slipped a hand into her sweatpants pocket and found the nipple clamps, which Sasha had branded the Chained Melody Clamps due to the alternating black and white metal chain length that mirrored piano keys. His eyes got wide and wild, his face even more flushed.
She shucked his pajama bottoms and boxers off, and he stepped out of them. He had tattooed vines twisting up his calves and painting his thighs.
His body was a garden and one of the nicest she’d ever seen.
“Sit down,” she said roughly. He sat on the sofa as if someone had cut his legs out from underneath him. “And buckle up.”
He grinned, almost helplessly, like he couldn’t control his reactions to her.
That grin echoed through her mind minutes later as she was kneeling between Perry’s legs and sucking on the blunt tip of his dick, edging him to oblivion.
She took him a bit deeper and cupped his heavy, meaty balls. He spread his legs wider and let go of a desperate whine. She popped off his dick.
Time to up the ante.
