Page 14 of Crazy Love
“You mean you can play an instrument.”
“I can play your instrument.” She flashes a glance at my Gretsch, and I can’t deny she certainly made her sing. Then her gaze falls to the pronounced bulge in my pants. “The pink oboe’s always been a favourite too. Want a demo?”
Fuck! Jesus fucking fuck!
Want—of course I want, but this can’t happen, not while Paradise Kiss’s future hangs in the balance, not when I’m supposed to be composing this generation’s anthem. I need to back off, and keep my dick in my pants, and yet when her hand strays towards my fly, I don’t stop her. She unzips me, touches me with her string-roughened finger tips, and I know she sees exactly what affect it has on me, because I’m the proverbial open book right now. I can’t hide anything—not from her. I don’t want to hide from her. I want her hands on me, her lips wrapped around me. I want my tongue in her mouth and her luscious tits pressed against my chest. Actually, I just need to see them.
I wrench up her top, exposing her bra. Loveday raises her arms, and I pull the whole thing over her head and cast it aside. I trace the blue lace around the top of one satiny cup, then circle her tightly steepled nipples with my thumbs. Her breath escapes as a hiss.
This is it, time to stop pretending. Balance hangs by a thread, we can still choose to walk away, but we don’t. Holy fuck, we don’t.
“Another Darke with a breast fetish?” she remarks.
When the breasts in question are as full and round as hers, you damn well bet.
“May I?” I reach for the back fastening, not bothering to wait for a nod. If she wasn’t up for this, she wouldn’t have her hand wrapped around my shaft and be torturing me with little rhythmic squeezes.
I chuck the rigid wire and lace contraption. Pretty as it is, what it was concealing is far more entrancing. Her breasts are heavy. They fill my hands. The nipples are a pretty rose colour, huge even when erect, and they’re like towers without the need for me tweaking them. Naturally I tweak them anyway, because I’m male and some things I just can’t resist. Fingers aren’t enough though. They are only the start. I lower my mouth—suck. The noise she makes gives me as much of a thrill as the taste of her.
“Seriously, are you gonna fuck my tits?”
“Idea of a pearl necklace turn you on?”
I expect a retort, but instead she swallows slowly and her hold on my cock becomes feathery, losing its precision metronome perfection of sliding downwards and then pulling up so that her thumb swirls over the sensitive head. Yeah, I think Loveday Trevaskis is made crazily horny by the notion of me using her cleavage and painting my spunk all over her. I don’t know if this is mutual respect, love, admiration or what we’re feeling. I’m not sure it actually matters, only that there’s a pressing need that’s gripped us both and has to be satisfied. Hell, I don’t care if it turns out to be a method of point scoring and nothing else if it means I get to spend a few minutes with my cock cradled in her cleavage.
“Thought I was demonstrating my musical talents.”
I’m pretty sure she’s already done that, but if she really wants to put her lips where I think she does, then I’m not complaining. “Don’t let me stop you.”
She falls onto her knees and pulls my jeans and trunks down to my thighs. She circles her hand around the base and angles me towards her lips.
Sheesh! I can’t take my eyes off her face.
God, she’s beautiful—blonde hair, full of glitter that shines when the spotlight catches it, eyes openly adoring. I don’t think she’s really that enamoured of me, but I revel in the fantasy that she is my number one fan, and that this is the future, when I’ve made the big time, and girls getting down on their knees for me has become the norm.
There’s nothing wrong with a bit of shameless self-glorification now and again.
I wonder how many rock stars have actually been blown on stage under the heat of a spotlight. I bet it’s fewer than you’d think, and I doubt any of them felt half so desperate or out of their depth. I’m careening out of control, when I like to be in control, but this lady plays havoc with my internal circuitry. When she sets her tongue to work, it takes me every bit of grit I possess not to come apart immediately. It’s too good, this sensation of slipping inside of her and being enveloped in her heat. She’s not wrong about her talents. I reckon she’s easily a grade eight. I’m going to come at lightning speed if she keeps dancing her tongue over the tip of me like that, so I curl my fingers around her shoulders and push her down onto the floor. Straddled across her, I lift her heavy breasts and squash them together.
What a tableaux we make, her stretched out and naked from the waist up, and me with my arse bared and my cock nestled between her tits. It’s the sort of scandalous shot the paparazzi love. Good thing that neither of us are famous enough to stalk yet. Though that could be about to change.
“Do it, then,” she says, hands scratching at my thighs.
I lean forward—her breasts are big enough to enfold me completely—and dive into pillowy heaven.
Thrust and retreat
What would be truly fantastic would be if I could figure out a way of doing this and getting my tongue between her thighs at the same time. Sadly, I’m no contortionist. And I suspect this is going to be short lived anyway.
Case in point—she watches the tip of my cock when it breaks free of the soft prison and sticks her tongue out to lap at it.
That’s it. A few such strokes and I’m done for. I come over her—in her mouth, on her chin and in her hair. The best bit is that she doesn’t protest the mess, just rubs it away, then wipes her hand down the front of my T-shirt, before using the same bit of cotton to reel me in and seal our mouths together again.
“I like your come face,” she says. “Christ—look at your eyes, so fucking green.”
I’m surprised it’s my eyes she was paying attention to, or maybe I’m not. She’s staring right into them now. I wonder which of my secrets she’s unearthing, and I’m not sure I care.
I just want to kiss her.
