“What a lovely idea. I’ll do that too.”
I groaned. “Sam…”
With a quick grin, he dipped his head and licked up my center. Christ. My back bowed, eyelids fluttering closed. I’d already been wet when he started touching me. Now I was drenched. Fingers dug into my flesh, holding my legs apart for him to feed. Because the man ate me like he was starving. There could be no other description. Some guys just gave you a lick or two then moved on to the fucking segment of the evening as if they’d ticked the good guy head box and had earned their reward. But not so with Sam. He licked and stroked and generally drove me out of my mind. If his whole upper body wound up covered in my juices, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.
The man obviously loved going down on a woman.
Well, this woman, at least.
His tongue dragged, dug, circled, and swirled over and around the pertinent parts of my anatomy. As if he needed to learn me inside and out for some later test. Without a doubt, he’d have passed with flying colors. The first orgasm hit me hard and had me shaking from top to toe. The second swept through me like a wave of ecstasy. Forget massages for total body and muscle relaxation. Unless they were massages done by Sam’s tongue to my pussy. Sign me up for one of those suckers any day.
“And you’re especially beautiful,” he said with a smile, wiping off his face with a hand, “right after you’ve come.”
I lay on the bench, still twitching, watching as he took off his shirt and shorts. Such a sight to see. The rock-hard length of his cock pointed straight at the ceiling. And I wanted it, I really did. But there was just one small problem. “I’m not sure I can move.”
“Let me help.” He lifted me off the bench so carefully, wrapping my legs around him seemed only polite. “Is the wall all right with you? The bench is the wrong height and the flooring’s a bit rough in here. Wouldn’t want you to get carpet burn on your soft skin.”
“The wall is fine.”
“Excellent.”
With my spine pressed to the cool flat surface, he reached between us, positioning the broad, blunt head of his cock at my entrance. There was less wriggling this time on account of me being so wet. In he pushed, slowly lowering me onto him. God, the feeling of fullness, the stretch of him inside me. Twenty-four hours was far too long to go without. I pressed my lips against his, kissing him deep and hungry. No need for messing around. No worrying about if he wanted me plastered all sweaty against his skin.
Sam knew me and wanted me. How much was honestly a little scary.
Hips flexing, he fucked himself into me time and again. Each measured perfect thrust stealing my breath and blowing my mind. His fingers tightened on my ass, digging in to hold me in place. The man steadily nailed me to the damn wall. Only he kept subtly, slightly shifting his position, searching for something. I didn’t realize what until he hit something inside my pussy that made my whole body clench.
“There we go,” he said.
“Christ. That’s why they call them drill sergeants, huh?”
“Don’t be silly.” He grinned. “That’s the army, love. I’m navy.”
Then he set about fucking me into oblivion. Over and over, he hit that one perfect place, sending me higher with each stroke. I clung to him, struggling for breath, body and heart turned inside out. As for my mind, it was total mush. Faster and harder, he fucked me against the wall, hammering my g-spot. Not stopping until I came again, shouting out a name. Someone’s name. Let’s not get into it. It didn’t matter. His hips ground against me, burying his dick deep as he came with a grunt. Yes. For all his honeyed words and carrying on, he’d come grunting at me. Pure romance.
This was why people shouldn’t get carried away with emotions etcetera. Even if the sex happened to be insanely good. Hormones can make you do stupid things like yelling out names of people you should probably only be friends with. Like, fuck buddies at best. Because once you start getting carried away, things get complicated. When you’re all wound up and feeling a million things including horribly exposed.
“You shouted my name,” he said almost wonderingly. The idiot.
“Should I have shouted someone else’s?” And while my lungs and heart might have been scrambling to catch up, my body was rigid, unyielding. “Put me down.”
Prudently, yet tenderly, he did so. “Martha, what are you thinking about?”
“Why do you always ask me that after sex?” I snapped, gathering up my clothing. “It’s unnecessary. The whole point of sex is not to think.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“What?” I snapped again.
“Is this about you saying my name?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s about intimacy in general, then?”