Her eyes watered as his deep voice rasped close to her ear. Her temple was in the safety of an iron warrior covered in Greek and Roman art. Her needs poured out to him. Begging to be touched. To be wanted. Purely. She wasn’t certain how it happened, but somehow, some way, Axel had gotten her shirt and bra off without her even noticing. Like some perverted yet beautiful magic trick. Heat and moisture bathed her neck as he breathed harshly against her, then kissed and gently sucked her throat. Her heart quickened when he raised her arms high over her head, securing their hands as he situated her flat on her back. Long locks of light hair drifted down her body like the willowy touch of a satin saint. His kisses were meaningful, not one of them unnoticed, hurried, or wasted.
Hard, powerful hands pulled at her jeans… then her panties. All she could see was art. All she could hear was art. All she could feel was art. Naked and cool. Exposed. A slow spinning fan on the ceiling rotated as if only a lazy breeze were pushing it forward. Back arched and an aching escape of oxygen caught in her chest when the first touch of a curled tongue traced her pussy. He moved like the wind. Crashed like the waves. He was Kentucky bourbon on ice.
“Oh, God…” Her eyes fluttered then clamped shut as the sounds of him eating her alive echoed all around them. Axel wrapped his arms tighter around her thighs, holding her down. She couldn’t move even if she wished to. His licking and sucking of her petals and folds grew louder. More demanding. She snuck a glimpse of the Goliath that was devouring her love. He popped his finger in his mouth, then winded it slowly inside of her. Their eyes passionately locked on one another’s, as if to blink would mean instant demise. Her clit was surrounded by soft warmth as he sucked it, then kissed… flicked. Repeat. He finger-fucked her, dips shallow and slow, while sucking on her clit fast and hard.
She cried out when her orgasm loomed, climbed fast, then burst free. Gripping the sheets, she fell apart, the art on the screen becoming blurry. Her hips rocked uncontrollably, and her feet couldn’t lie still. He said not a word to her since she’d entered that room, and yet, somehow, she heard his demons and angels speaking in many languages, all of which she could fully understand.
He glided towards the top of the bed as she lay there, helplessly slammed by orgasmic aftershocks, and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
Sounds amplified. The rattling of a drawer opening. Plastic tearing.
Her pussy throbbed with need and her heart throbbed with worry. She’d been falling for him hard. This was the final nail in the coffin. Nailed. Fucked. Screwed.
His back was now towards her, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see him sheathing himself. It wasn’t long before his heavy weight consumed her, and they kissed each other all over. She buried her face against his neck, his shoulders… Caressing him. The hard muscles. The scars. The flesh of a man that had seen the ugliness of the world ten times over. He had pain on the inside that he dared to show. She saw that dark, gunky, hurtful shit flash in his eyes when he spoke of his father. Of his mother’s resilience and her hardened heart. Whatever troubles the man had seen, he understood them as fact. Axel spoke in truths, but he refused to listen. Maybe for fear they’d be nothing more than self-trickery and lies.
“…I know so much about you, Axel, yet so little. Your heartbeat is telling me things you won’t. I can hear it. Can you?”
He ran his tongue along her earlobe, and she seized up with another wave of desire.
“Shhh… Quiet now, darlin’. I want to put you to sleep so you can dream of me even when I’m not inside you. Be still now, and let me write my first and last name on your walls…read and study it in your wet little pocketbook.”
Her pulsing organ quickened its beats—a response to what could not be verbally spoken.
She looked over his shoulder at the art now on the screen. No abstract paintings anymore. Vincent Van Gogh was now debuting. How ironic. How forlorn. How poetic. Van Gogh went crazy and cut off his left ear. Axel refuses to hear. It hurts too much…
“Shit!” A hard thrust rocked her as he entered her without warning. Instinctively wrapping her body tighter around his, he placed one hand on her head, crowning her, while drawing her in for a hard, manic kiss. His hips pumped fast then slowed to a crawl, teasing her. Driving her crazy. A man in full control. He slipped his other hand between her legs and stroked her tender center. Rising up on one elbow, he trailed his hand from her head down to her waist to caress her hip as he pumped faster. Harder. Deeper. The bed began to make an odd noise each time he thrust, blending in with the sounds of ‘Dark Red,’ by Steve Lacy. She stared at the tattooed angel soaring above her…