His hands rove downward, sliding off my coat and letting it drop to the ground. His touch continues, rubbing and exploring over my clothes as he lowers to a crouch. Then he removes my boots. Jeans. Panties.
The absence of light shrouds my nudity, but I feel chillingly exposed. It’s just the cold air nipping at my skin. And maybe my battling nerves.
With his hips out of reach, I grasp at his neck. His hair is so short on the back of his head it feels like stubble beneath the rim of the cap. I find the loose curls that fell free and try to picture his hair style. Shaved underneath and long on top? The curls are so thick and coarse, so different from Jake’s soft, stick-straight hair.
He rests his hands on the backs of my legs and caresses upward, leaving a trail of goosebumps and fire. Pressing closer, his nose grazes my bare pussy. Closer still, and he buries his face, drawing in a slow, deep breath. Smelling me. Then he licks.
My mind shuts off, and I just…feel. His mouth, his fingers, the diabolical swirl of his tongue inside me… My God, I shake so badly I can barely remain upright.
His breaths come harder, faster, setting the feverish pace of mine. The leather of his fingerless gloves abrades my inner thighs as he thrusts long digits inside me, and thrusts, and thrusts, sucking and kissing with those sinful lips.
I ache to come, and that overbearing necessity stretches and tightens my nerves to the point of frustration. He continues to lick, and I continue to reach for that blissful edge.
He eats the fuck out of my pussy for an eternity, but the orgasm slips away.
It’s not him. I just… I can’t get there.
He’s not Jake.
Rising to his feet, he places a foil wrapper in my hand. I bend my fingers around it. A condom.
I bet he assumes this is a regular thing for me. If he only knew I’ve never held a condom, let alone rolled one on a dick.
“You want me to do this?” I shout, fully aware he can’t hear me over the raucous music.
He leans in, pushing his chest against mine, and bites my earlobe. That’s when I feel just how fast and labored his breathing has become. Sweet Jesus, he’s worked up, wildly turned on, and damn if that doesn’t burst my skin into flames.
His hands move between us, releasing his fly and shoving down his jeans. Then he grips my hand, the one holding the condom, and guides it to his cock.
A thundering ache sparks in my chest. My throat seals up, and my mouth goes dry.
I touch him, the broad, very smooth tip of him. I follow the flared ridge, the silky length, and pause at the patch of coarse hair. It feels like dick. A hard, twitchy, fully engorged cock. What now?
He plucks the wrapper from my hand, tears it open with his teeth, and notches it on the end of his length. Sliding his fingers around mine, he uses our combined grip to roll it on.
Wow, that’s hot. And reassuring. It’s as if he’s trying to make me feel safe, like he’s telling me he’ll take care of me.
This is how sex is supposed to be. Respectful. Healthy. Willing.
He presses his lips against my cheek, and his mouth moves, saying words that are slapped away by the pounding ruckus.
His hands grip my thighs, lifting, spreading, as he pins my back against the wall. Then he’s on me, his body shaking and hard, his hips stretching my legs wider, and his breaths panting against my neck.
I wrap my arms around his back, my nerve endings screaming and squirming and alive. I’m alive. And ready. So fucking ready.
His fingers squeeze my thigh, and he drives against me, rocking, grinding, seeking entry with uncontrolled, frantic thrusts. Then he finds it, my wet needy hole, and impales me in one hard, powerful thrust.
My spine bows from the force of it, and I swear I hear a “Fuck!” roar from his lips.
He pulls out slowly and lunges again. Over and over, he doesn’t hold back. His teeth find my shoulder. My hands scratch the back of his leather jacket, cleaving to him as he stretches me, fills me, and uses me in the best way possible.
My thighs clamp around his driving hips. My hard nipples scrape against my bra. I want him deeper. Need him faster. I buck my hips, and he bucks his, his movements fitful, slowing with erratic jerks. Then he buries himself to the root and stops.
His body sags against me, and his relieved breaths chop at my ear.
He came.
It’s over.
He lowers my feet to the dirt, quickly puts himself back together, and gathers my clothes. As he dresses me, I feel things, too many things, and I have neither the desire nor the ability to analyze them.