Page 38 of Whiskey Throttle
My hand flies to the edge of a nearby drafting table, gripping hard as the first flick of his tongue makes my legs tremble. The control I always possess is gone. Snapped as he laps at my lower lip.
A man starved.
“Oh, yes.”
My fingers move into his hair, dragging his face closer. Grinding into that carefree smile he always wears. I melt under the heat of his mouth and the unbearable rhythm he sets. He has a reputation. Everyone knows it. But damn if his skills aren’t elite.
I lean back, letting the hard table edge press into my butt when I widen my legs. Giving him everything he wants and needs to finish me off. He groans in satisfaction. His hand splays on my pelvic bone, pulling at the hood. With nowhere to escape to, the intensity increases. My grinding as well. He’s relentless. Sucking and licking. Vibrating my clit with his groans and moans.
Two fingers slip past my drenched lips, curling inside me with such accuracy that I jolt when he finds that perfect spot. They stroke in flawless timing to his mouth. His eyes flicker up to mine, appreciation and full on lust in them. But it’s too much, too intense to think about.
My head lolls back. My eyes close. He’s tearing me apart. Slowly, sensually, and expertly.
His mouth, tongue, teeth, and fingers are a prayer and a curse. My orgasm builds with each lick and thrust. His shoulder presses into my thigh, demanding more room. I give it, spreading myself as wide as I can while still standing upright.
My focus narrows to him, everything he’s doing to draw me out. Closer to him. My grip on his hair loosens when he bites my clit, sending me spinning into an orgasmic free fall. My body slacks, sagging deeper onto his fingers and elevating my climactic bliss. He doesn’t stop. Forces more and more from me in an impossible long release. Longer than I can ever remember having. I fall to my elbows, the old wood creaking under my weight, until I’m boneless. Unable and unwilling to stop the flood of wetness coming from me.
“Hollister.”
It’s a breath, not a word.
His mouth stills.
When I finally open my eyes again, he’s standing. Fingers dragging from me. A string of cum glistens in the sunlight as it breaks between us. He intentionally raises his hand to his mouth, licking and savoring each finger. It’s the hottest thing I’ve seen in years. The hungry look in his eyes says he’s not even close to done with me.
“Stay just like that. I want to remember exactly how you look. The flush of your cheeks. The hardness of your nipples. That pretty pink pussy, wet and waiting.”
He’s making love to my ears as much as he’s about to do to me. I’ll never regret this. Whatever happens. Come what may, I’ll never regret this weekend with him. I know that in my soul.
“Come here.”
It’s not a request. It’s a summons. It is a need for more. To not be his muse, but to be his lover in every sense of the word. His grin could split the sky. Then he’s lifting me, laying me flat on the wide old table. Sunlight cuts through the wall of windows facing the sea. The light casts gold across my body as I bend my leg. My foot is flat on the wood to stabilize myself while the other dangles off the edge.
“Holy mother of sin.”
He shakes his head and licks his lips. I feel like a goddess. Worshipped and wanted. It’s a boost to my ego and self-esteem. A memory that will live forever in my mind and soul when I walk into the next charity event or gala, questioning my existence.
“I’d paint you right now if I could. Photograph you for sure, if you’d let me.”
His words startle me. He’s already sketched me in my gown, but nude like this? Not a chance.
“Another time. Now don’t make me beg, Hollister.”
“Fuck.”
He groans, practically ripping off his clothes. His tattoos are a sight to behold. A canvas of flowers decorating his wrist and climbing up his arm, intersecting with the image of a female face from Roman times, if I’m guessing correctly. On the other arm, an antique clock face leads to a landscape of an old town, all in grayscale, with endless meanings, I assume. The heat between us causes them to glisten with a slight sheen of sweat.
His taut skin spreads over large muscles that dip and spread as fists his cock, long and veiny with a slight curve upward.
Stunning.
His word for me. Yet applicable to him. His chest is bare, either waxed or shaved, but everything about him is a work of art. He opens a drawer of an antique desk adjacent to the table and pulls out a condom. Something I hadn’t thought of but appreciate now. I greedily watch him, my pussy pulsing with anticipation.
Wordlessly, he settles between my thighs, capturing my ankle and moving it to his shoulder, with a brush of his lips against the skin of my calf. He hesitates for a second. His gaze roams over my body, open and available to him. I can’t decide if it’s an artist’s eye memorizing my lines again or a man lusting after his lover.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to analyze this. I only want to feel. Feel him inside me. Something I’ve guiltily fantasized about in the nights after we played tennis. After going back and forth, scolding myself for wanting him when he confessed to wanting me.
With one long thrust, he’s pushing in. Past the resistance that lack of sex brings, until he’s fully seated. I shiver with goodness, feeling full and complete in the only way a man can make me feel. He groans and stills. His only movement is the thumb now on my clit, rubbing softly.
