Page 27 of Crazy Love
“You want to know what I want to do to you?”
“Supposing I was that easy.” Her hot, sweet breath buffets my face. Her lips are plump and almost on a level with mine.
For starters, I want to taste her, and I mean both sets of lips. French kisses are great, but I meant it when I said I wanted her to sit on my face. Spelling out what I want to do might earn me a slap, but sometimes you have to make that wild leap and throw caution to the wind.
I abandon my phone next to hers on the vanity unit, then I lean in and whisper right into her ear. “I want to taste your slick, hot cunt. I want to fuck you with my tongue until you cream all over it. Then I want to lick you clean before filling your tight wet cunt with my cock.”
“How do you know I’m tight?” she whispers back. “Could be that I’ve been around the block a few times. I might have squeezed a kid out for all you know.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
I’m relieved in an almost unfathomable way—some half formed notion that the only seed I want to see planted in her belly is mine. This girl has me on a visceral level. It’s not just lust that grabs me by the goolies when I touch her, there’s something deeper sizzling away in the background too.
We joust a few more moments, the conversation played out in the silence between our breaths and the slight shifts in our stances. Skin touches skin. Our hips fit neatly together. We don’t kiss though, not yet. When we do, that’ll be the point of no return, when we both stop thinking about Knox snoring in the bathtub, and our respective groups and the crap that’s due to rain down upon them.
We fumble about, failing to decide which direction to throw our lots, then diving simultaneously into headlong disaster.
“I’m going to suck your clit until it’s poking up begging me for attention,” I tell her. “Then I’m going to put my tongue in your cunt and my fingers in your arse, and get you so overwrought that you beg me not just to pound you hard, but to do it in the dirtiest, nastiest ways you can imagine.”
“I hope you’re not all talk, Mr. Darke.”
“I hope you’re not easily shocked.”
-11-
Loveday Trevaskis
Life rarely produces anything strange enough to shock me, and yet he manages to startle me with the fierceness of his loving. It’s not simply that his hands and mouth are on me, or that his body is a solid, unyielding wall of muscle that’s pressed hard up against mine. It’s the fire I see burning in his eyes when he speaks. There’s an edge to his words that causes my central nervous system to light up like I’ve been connected to the national power grid.
Actually fucking him is probably the stupidest thing I could do right now, but it’s absolutely the course I’m set upon. It doesn’t matter that if Jessie walks in, I’d be swilling about in so much shit I’d smell like a sun-ripened turd, because I’d be a blissed out, well-fucked turd.
I want this guy. Normally I pick someone up, have my fun with them and move on. No one is worth taking a huge risk over, because they’re not going to be around long enough to warrant the fall out, but Darke has crawled under my skin in a way that convinces me to stick two fingers up at the consequences of doing him.
All that matters is that we get naked and bang like maniacs.
I’m already panting in expectation of it. My heart is drumming in my throat, and each breath seems to get stalled in my chest to then emerge as a gasp. Darke teases me with his words as much as his fingers. It’s as if he’s tuned himself in to my psyche, and has the solution to the combination lock that is my libido.
I want his mouth on me in the way he promises, hard up against my sex, lapping with his tongue. It’s difficult not to simply grab him by the hair and force his delivery.
His fingers stroke along the edge of my robe again, this time following the line of fabric down to where the belt is knotted, holding the two front halves together. One quick rip and the knot is no more, likewise any sort of shield I had. The edges of the robe peel apart, exposing me—breasts, stomach, the insides of both thighs, and my best pair of utilitarian black cotton panties.
He tucks a finger under the top edge of their elastic while an amused smile plays upon his lips. “Practical,” he teases, plunging two fingers downwards through the thatch of my hair to the split of my pussy.
I clamp a hand down fast over the top of his. “Kiss me,” I demand. I need the connection. I want this to be personal, even though every second I spend in his presence is sheer folly.
He rolls our foreheads together, so we’re looking one another in the eyes, but our mouths are still inches apart.
“Please,” I whimper. I want his mouth on me, his tongue dancing with mine.
Darke’s lips are soft, where everything else about him is hard, especially that broomstick poking me in the thigh. I want him to jab it right into me, split the lips of my sex and bury himself to the hilt. I want all the dirty things he’s said to be the warm-up to the even more perverted things he’s not said.
Every time he mentions doing something to my arse, I feel a little more unhinged. I imagine his thumb inside of me, making the nerve endings of my arsehole light up like sparklers, then his cock in that dark part of me, pounding away.
I used to dream about having a lover who only ever screwed me in the arse.
Former teenage fantasies—I’ve always been terrified of babies, but too horny to adhere to any form of chastity.
