Page 115 of Storm in a Teacup
“Where is that condom?” I ask, voice muffled by his lips.
“You are highly impatient.” He pushes himself off me to shove a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a wallet and handing it over. “In there, love.”
My heart attempts to find a steady beat as I ask breathlessly, “When did you put this in here? High hopes for tonight?” I dig through the wallet until my fingers trace the foil wrapper I’m after.
“I put it in there before London. I wasn’t planning anything, but wanted to be prepared for the best-case scenario.”
“Glad you’re an optimist. Take off your pants.”
He chuckles lightly as he strips down, revealing a thick erection, then kneels between my splayed legs. I open the condom wrapper and slip it on him, my eyes pleading desperately.
His hand strokes down my stomach before finding his cock. He stares at me as he pumps it once, twice, and says, “Look at that pretty cunt. Dripping and ready for me.”
“So ready for you,” I confirm heavily.
I spread my legs wider, welcoming him as he slides inside inch by inch, his arms caging me. His thrusts are slow, testing the waters, almost as if he is waiting for me to take back what I said. I won’t. This is so, so good.
“Harder, Ben,” I plead.
His head shakes above me. “I need you on your handsand knees, sugar. If I go any harder while looking you in the eye, I will come here and now. I want this to last as long as possible.”
“Okay,” I agree.
He pulls out, and I feel inexplicably empty without him inside. I shift so I’m on my knees facing away from him. Bent forward, I grab my headboard. His hands stroke over my backside, muttering, “I promise to appreciate you.”
The man is talking to my ass. It’s a good thing I love him.
His hands move down to my thighs, spreading them wider before he slips back inside fully. His thrusts get more intense, harder, faster as his body lays over mine, one arm wrapping around my waist and the other hand meeting mine on the headboard. Gripping me tight, he pulls me upward, my ass out and back arched as he pounds into me, holding me to him with an arm across my chest. The movement to this position alone nearly leads me straight into oblivion.
“Fuck, sugar. I love the feeling of you on my cock. You’re going to come for me, okay?”
“Okay,” I choke out.
He continues to move inside me. I angle my head so his lips meet mine in a heavy kiss. He thrusts upward, and that is enough to send me spasming, crying out as I find that release.
“Fuckinghell,” he mutters. “I want to hear the noises you make when you come every day for the rest of my life.”
I make a sound of agreement, knowing I want him to be the cause of those noises each time.
He removes himself from me, flipping me onto my back before pulling me up so that I am straddling his bent legs.My thighs are trembling, but my body is still begging desperately for more.
“I need to see you,” he says through heavy breaths.
I nod, agreeing, still blinded by stars as I attempt to re-enter reality. Together, we guide him back inside. My hips roll against him, feeling every inch. I touch his face, hands gliding over it, learning each little bit, knowing I need to see him too, with every sense I have.
“Come for me one more time, sugar? I need to feel that pretty cunt pulsing on my cock.”
“Yes,” I agree readily. “Yes.” I move up and down with his thrusts, wet and slippery between us. I glide on his cock, the position we’re in perfect for my clit. “Ben,” I say, only wanting to say his name. “Benny,” I plead as he gets me so close. “Oh,fuck.” I come a third time, and this time, he comes with me, releasing himself as his head drops to my shoulder, brow moist with sweat.
We stay in that position, connected, as we catch our breath, just exchanging our own air for each other’s. I cling to him, feeling boneless and happy. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move again, but that’s fine by me. When I have enough air, I kiss him lightly. “We should do this again.”
“And again,” he agrees.
…
My fingers trail down Ben’s face as we lie side by side in bed. Once we tired out, we opened the door to let in a very disgruntled Oscar Wilde, who is now resting at the edge of the bed between our feet. It’s 2 a.m., but I’m not tired.
“It will be your face,” I say quietly, trailing my finger down his cheek, the askew glasses on my nose and the dim light of the lamp offering a visual.
