by Sara Rustan
The thoughts in her head were rational. The movements of her body, of her mouth were anything but. She found herself gripping the back of his neck, returning his kiss with so much passion it shocked her.
He lifted her, setting her on his lap as his hands found their way to her backside. Heat ignited deep within her and a light sheen of sweat broke out over her skin. She attributed it, and her overwhelming desire, to the drink. She swept her tongue over his, moaning.
Conell tugged at the back of her hair, forcing her body to arch into him. Her diamond-like nipples scraped over his chest, the very action caused her pussy to cream. She rocked on his lap, the distended flesh between his legs pushed against her clit, making a beg hover on her lips.
Moans from the dancers onstage mixed with her own and Kiwi sucked on Conell’s tongue. He yanked her shirt free of her pants and slid his hands under it. As his fingers found her nipples, she tensed, remembering they weren’t alone.
“B-Ballou,” she panted. “Anyone could see us.”
Nodding, he continued to kiss at her neck while tweaking her nipples, making her protests fade away. She put her hands on his shoulders to keep her balance as she tipped her head back, enjoying his touch. Cool air hit her breasts and it took Kiwi a second to realize he’d hiked her shirt up. His warm lips enveloped her nipple and pleasure centered in the pit of her stomach, desperate to break free. She writhed on him, grinding her mound to his clothed cock.
He paid equal attention to her other nipple and she dug her fingers into his shoulder. He pulled off and stared at her, his gaze hungry. “Turn around.”
“What?” she asked, confused.
“I said—” he lifted her and faced her the other way as if she were nothing more than a rag doll, “—turn around.”
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