Page 44 of Untether

I don’t even try to hold back, because the pleasure rolling through me in huge waves is so strong, so completelyright, that it’s all I can do to go with it.

His mouth on my pussy is life-altering. He’s sucking my clit, then licking it, those lips of his dragging over thesurrounding flesh as he goes, like he wants to cover every inch of my most intimate areas.

His fingers stretch me open. They twist. They crook. He adds another as the hand on my stomach presses down even harder, and my entire pelvic region fills with gorgeous, molten heat. He’s still working my clit with that lascivious mouth and its filthy licks. This might be the most sexually satisfying moment of my life.

I feel blindly for his head and grab at a handful of his thick hair. I don’t need to tug him closer to where I need him because this guy iseverywhere.He’s devouring my pussy like a starving man, his sounds of satisfaction now almost as primal, as hungry as the moans I’m making.

‘God,’ I grit out, but it’s more of a pant than a blasphemy, because I’m so close I can barely get myself to sound human. I’m bucking against his hand, fucking his fingers, grinding against his tongue like the most shameless, desperate whore who’s ever lived, and I love it. I fuckingloveit. It seems I’ve embraced Cal’s confidence, his enthusiasm, and his general dirtiness, which I guess was the idea.

But this is better than I could ever,everhave conceived of. This is who I am. This is what I was put on this earth to do. It’s primordial. Elemental. It’s—

I explode.

Over and over, heat racing through my nervous system like a fire through gasoline, relentless and all-consuming, so intense that it obliterates my consciousness and sends me hurtling into transcendence. I lie there, writhing blindly and abandoning myself to this unearthly pleasure as Cal continues to eat, lick, suck, finger-fuck, and groan his way through my orgasm.

It subsides gently, almost as if it’s conscious of not leaving me too bereft. Too hollowed out. It ebbs away likethe gauziest, the frothiest, of waves on the shore, leaving not a void in its wake but a beautiful, shimmering completeness.

Cal is still touching me. His hand strokes over my stomach. He’s scattering kisses over my thighs. I tug off my sleep mask and raise myself up onto my elbows with difficulty, and he looks up.

Jesus. He looks as just-fucked as I do. Hair mussed. Dark eyes glassy. Even in the dim light, his mouth looks swollen, wet, like his assault on my pussy was as wonderfully rough on him as it was on me.

He relinquishes the pressure on my stomach, his hand sliding around my waist to help me sit up. I brace myself with a hand behind me, but before I can make some inelegant attempt at articulating my appreciation, he’s wrapping his other hand around my neck and sealing his mouth to mine.

He tastes like me. It’s jarring and arousing. He has me in his arms now, even as I sit up on the bed. His kisses are hard and fevered and demanding, and I meet them with the blissed-out sensuality of a woman whose orgasm has just torn her apart, my hands stroking languorously up his mostly bare arms and over the taut musculature of his back as his fingers weave through my hair.

I’m suspended, my earlier nerves subsumed and my consciousness shot through with halcyon details: the press of his pecs against my breasts and the taut probing of his tongue and the smoothness of the skin at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, he breaks our kiss and presses his forehead to mine.

‘How do you feel after that?' he asks softly.

‘More amazing than I’ve felt in a very long time,’ I confess. ‘I don’t know how to describe it.’

‘Good,’ he murmurs, pulling away. ‘Jesus, look at these. They’re even more perfect like this.’

Theseare my breasts, and a flicker of self-consciousness hits me as I remember that Cal’s fully dressed and I’m sitting here, stark naked. But the way he’s backing away so he can look at them properly tamps that unease down, and I straighten up so I’m sitting upright on the bed, legs dangling over the edge in front of him.

‘I don’t think they’re perfect,’ I demur, but he tuts.

‘Nope. None of that bullshit with me, sweetheart. Cup them for me. And open your legs while you’re at it.’

It’s super dim in here, but still. It’s not like I’m used to a man commanding me like I’m here for his pleasure. Like this sight of my forty-six-year-old body, with its crepey tummy and C-section scar and mom-thighs could actually bring him pleasure.

But it seems to.

He’s telling me with his words, but also with his eyes. With the teeth that tug on his full bottom lip as I cup my breasts like he asks and basically put them on a platter for him. And most definitely with the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. The one he’s—

Oh.

My.

God.

He’s palming his cock, rubbing at it absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

‘Look at you,’ he says, and even his voice is absentminded, like he’s talking to himself and not to me. ‘Look how flushed and beautiful you look after you come. That pussy is just… and those fuckingtits. Jesus.’

‘Hey,’ I tell him, reaching out for him. ‘Come here.’

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