Bliss.
5
Sebastián
I’ve dreamt of this. I know I have. Finley’s pussy.
Bare and glistening. Puffy and pink, each wet fold an invitation meant for me.
I know beauty. Before my deal with Damon King, I appraised priceless works of art. Illuminated manuscripts created by monks who spent years toiling in silence and service, expressing themselves in the only way available to them.
Finley’s cunt goes beyond merely beautiful. It is perfection.
No dream, even mine, can compete.
No dream can capture the heat that warms my lips as I get close enough to lick her. No fantasy can encompass the scent that fills my lungs with each bated breath, musky and sweet. And her taste. Fuck.
With Finley’s weight on my shoulders, my hands wrap around her thighs. Holding her still, I gorge myself. I am all tongue and teeth, devouring Finley’s pussy with an insatiable greed that only increases with each suck of her clit, each lick of her slit. I growl against her slick skin like an animal. A hungry beast.
And Finley is hardly her normal self. Her fingers plunge into my hair, her fingernails raking my scalp as she grinds against my face, using the wall at her back as leverage to buck against me, grinding her hips and rolling her pelvis.
Her breathless cries and desperate moans are muffled, the sound distorted by the press of her legs against my ears. It is the best soundtrack I’ve ever heard.
Her movements grow more frenzied, the warm satin of her pussy quivering against my tongue. My cock is heavy and throbbing, painfully hard inside my pants. The ache is a steady, sonorous drumbeat that echoes within my bones.
And after one minute or one hour—I have no idea because time has been rendered irrelevant—Finley’s orgasm is the crescendo of our symphony. A shriek flies off her tongue as she stiffens against me, her spine a convex curve as she arches away from the wall, her entire body shaking.
I press my tongue against her clit, not licking, not sucking, just applying pressure as she rides out her climax. And when her muscles ease, every last bit of tension bleeding out on a broken sigh, I finally pull away from her, pausing only to wipe my cheeks and chin on her thighs before drawing her into my arms and rising to my feet.
For a brief moment, Finley goes stiff in my arms, as if remembering that I’m her enemy. Maybe I am.
But not today.
“Don’t even think about it,” I whisper against the sweet shell of her ear just barely peeking through the tousled mane that had felt like silk in my palm.
Her response is a moan. Part arousal, part resistance.
Her arms come around my neck. Arousal wins.
I walk with Finley to the living room, depositing her gently over the arm of the couch. “Stay. Your bare ass had better still be in the air when I get back.” A dry chuckle works its way up my throat. “And if you leave, don’t for one second think I won’t chase you down and fuck you in the goddamn lobby.”
I don’t wait for an argument or a snippy comeback, striding into my bedroom for a condom and into the kitchen for something else.
I’m not gone long, and when I return, I am struck anew by the sight in front of me. Finley is naked. Gloriously naked. The delicate curve of her spine arching like a rainbow beneath the smooth, pale expanse of her back, her shoulder blades spread like angel wings.
My palm is so hot, the ice cube in my hand is already more of a thick sliver. Finley gasps as I rub it over her neck, running it in sure strokes down her back and into the crack of her ass. Before it melts entirely, I press it against her clit. Her hips squirm away and I hold her in place with my free hand, pushing what’s left of the ice inside her pussy. “Gotta cool you down or I’m going to combust when I fuck you.”
Finley’s muffled response isn’t clear, but it definitely isn’t a protest.
I drop kisses on her shoulders as my hands slide around her ribcage to cup her breasts. They are perfect handfuls, filling without overflowing, the furled points of her nipples pressing into my palm.
I growl a curse as I release my grip and yank at my belt and clothes, making quick work of everything until they are merely discarded brushstrokes of leather and fabric on the floor of my apartment.
I roll the condom on, my movements rough and impatient. I’ve never wanted to be inside any woman this badly.
There is something about Finley that calls to me. An innate sexiness I find irresistibly appealing. But more than that, Finley is cunning and smart, each one of our interactions reinforcing the impression that she is fulfilling a legacy of her own.
I want to know more about her. More about why she has chosen to work with Damon King.