He frowned. “You…what?”
“If that’s using me, then Ink, I want you to use me like that.” I touched my lips to his cheekbone again, kissed him wet and slow. Moved my lips to his, hesitating. Whispered. “Want to know something else, Ink?”
“What?” he murmured back.
“I thought about you, too. Tried to picture you, naked. Touching me. Tried to imagine you naked, hard for me. Pictured my hands wrapped around you…” I let my hand drift south to his belly. “Pictured myself touching you. Making you feel good. Pictured myself naked and on my back, with your face between my thighs.”
He groaned as I inched my hand lower. “Jesus, Cass.”
“Would you do that, Ink?”
“Do what? Put my face between your thighs? Eat you out?” He groaned again, a long, tortured sound. “Until you begged me to stop.”
“I wouldn’t. Not ever. I’d never want you to stop.”
“Then I wouldn’t.”
“But what really turned me on, Ink, what really made me touch myself and make myself come so hard, was thinking about touching you.” I watched his face as I reached for him. “Just…like…this.”
I curled my fingers around his cock, and he let out a long low growl. Hardening in my hand, he grew and grew, to improbable proportions. The tip extended past his belly button. Thick as my wrist, straight and lying flat against his belly. His arousal was shockingly huge. My mouth watered, my core ached.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” he breathed. Eyes flicked open to watch me. “You lyin’, Cass?”
I just held him. “Lying? About what?”
“Touching yourself, thinking about me.”
“No. Not at all.” I stroked him slowly. “I masturbate every day, Ink. Sometimes more than once. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been with anyone, and I’m so horny I could explode from it.” I bit my lip, watching his huge erection slide through my tiny hand. “I made myself come so hard I saw double, thinking about you, about touching you. Making you feel good.” I stroked, and stroked, slowly, relishing the feel every satin-soft and hard as iron inch. “I have needs, Ink. Crazy, intense, insatiable needs.”
He was breathing hard. “Needs.” As if making sense, full sentences, was now beyond him.
“Yes.” I used both hands, then, and with both fists wrapped around him at the root, his erection still stood several inches up out of the top of my upper fist, and my fingers only just barely closed around him. “You want to know something about me?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Tell me.”
“No one has ever been able to keep up with me. I finish, and I want more. And more. I just always want more. I want it more intense, more of it, faster, harder, rougher. And no matter how much or how good it is, I want more. I just always want more.” I looked at him, met his eyes. “It’s been frustrating, my whole life. Makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me, that I just can’t get enough.”
He didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. “Before—all that shit happened, you know. When it was just messing around. I felt that way. Like, no matter how good things were, how good it felt, how frequently we did things, like I would just never be satisfied.”
“You still feel that way?” I asked.
He shrugged, shook his head. “Dunno. Haven’t let myself feel anything for a long time.”
I rubbed my thumb over the tip of him. “What about right now?”
He didn’t answer immediately, as if he had to catch his breath, organize his thoughts into something like coherency. “It’s been so fuckin’ long I don’t…you, what you’re doing. It feels like the first time, all over again.”
“Is that a good thing, a bad thing, or just a thing?”
“I dunno. It feels so good, though. I don’t want it to ever stop. I don’t—I don’t want you to ever stop.”
“What else do you want?” I asked.
One hand gliding his length, root to tip, in a smooth slow rhythm, unhurried, I used my other hand to cup his heavy sac, massaging. Filling my hand with their soft, delicate weight.
“I want…” He lifted his hips. Feeling the surge of need, I assumed. Rising, filling him. I wanted to draw it out as long as possible, but I also wanted to see him let go, watch him explode, know I brought him the first true pleasure he’d felt in who knew how long. “I don’t fuckin’ know, Cass. Just you.”
I saw a million things on his face. “I see you, Ink. I see you feeling more than you’re saying.” I met his eyes. “Say it all. Tell me what you want. Tell me you want it. Ask me for it.” I grinned, a sultry smile of desire. “Or better yet, show me. Take it.”
“Scared to want too much,” he bit out.
“Scared that you’ll want something I won’t want to give?”
He nodded.
“Won’t happen.” I nipped at his earlobe. “Try me.”
“Shit, Cass.”
I laughed. “Well, there’s one thing I’d say won’t ask for.” I giggled, squeezing him. “I won’t put this thing in my ass. But anything else…?”
He rumbled, and I wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or something else.
“Won’t ask for that. Wouldn’t anyway.”
He looked down at my hand, still wrapped around his immense, straining erection. At my face. His eyes flicked down to my chest. To the knot in my shirt.
He reached up, hesitantly. Unknotted the hem of the shirt with one hand. Gauged my reaction—I let go of him and lifted my arms over my head, and he drew the shirt off. I sat next to him in the grass, dressed now in yoga pants and a sports bra. He was naked, his shorts down around his ankles. He kicked them off and toed them aside. Sat up. Faced me. Even sitting, he still towered over me. His palm touched my cheek, and he brushed my cheekbone with a thumb. Ran that same thumb over my lips, the pad rough and broad. I met his eyes, and the fierce hunger I saw blazing there, just for a moment. It stunned me with its raw ferocity.
But, all too soon, habit had him shuttering it.
I took his face in both hands. Leaned close. “Don’t hide that from me, Ink. Don’t. That’s what I want.”
He furrowed his brow. “Hard to let it out.”
I smiled. “I’m patient. Just know that I want it. I want to see it. Feel it. Experience it.”
“Trying.”
With another hesitant glance at my eyes, he grazed his fingertips over my ribs, up my spine. Caught against the strap of my sports bra, I just waited. He tugged it up, ran his fingers around the strap to the front, and pulled up. My breasts lifted, caught in the tight garment, and then bounced free, and his eyes fixed on them.
“Want to know something?” I whispered.
He, with effort, moved his eyes to mine. “What?”
“Never done anything like this outside.”
“Me either.” He looked again at my breasts, and then at my eyes. “Goddamn, you’re beautiful, Cassandra.”
My heart swelled—I wish I knew how to communicate how badly I needed to hear that. Needed to feel that. “You look at me like you’ve never seen a naked woman before.”
He shrugged. “Looking at you, it feels like I never have.” He moved closer, and his lips touched mine.
It was a delicate, questing dance of lips soaring against lips, tongues finding each other, a delving from first kiss to lost in bliss. I whimpered at his kiss, because, god, his lips were soft, strong. He kissed as if he’d never kissed before, as if I would stop wanting to kiss him if he allowed me a single moment to even think of anything but his kiss.
I drowned in his mouth, kissed him until I was dizzy and gasped for breath, and then we touched lips and tasted tongues, and his eyes found mine, a brief moment, and then another small kiss, another. Short, soft, wet, inaccurate, lips missing, tongues not quite finding each other, the kiss all the more intense moment by moment. A dozen tiny kisses, each one a rifle bullet straight to my heart. Straight to my core, where I ached to be touched, ached for his fingers, his tongue, his arousal.
I whimpe
red into the kiss and pressed my chest against his, leaned into him, felt his body against mine as a massive, immovable wall of muscle and man. He curled his hand around the back of my head and kissed me harder, and I knotted my fingers in his hair, gasping against his lips as his kiss sent me into a paroxysm of need. I clutched at his erection, found it waiting for me as hard as a rock, and tall and thick and straight. I plunged my fist around him. Let go of his hair and used both hands. Pressed against his chest and he lay back. I went with him, leaned over him, one hand now braced on his chest to support my weight, the other now greedily stroking him.
I kissed him, and kissed him. Now it was my turn to kiss his fierce gentle mouth as if I might die if I didn’t kiss him again, and again, and harder, and more intensely. I kissed him with all the ferocity I felt in my soul and in my body, and I caressed his erection with unhurried rhythm, slowly, making sure he felt and remembered forever each individual stroke of my fingers around him.
His hand settled on my thigh, just below my butt. I pressed my core against his hip, angled against him. Urging. Giving him tacit permission to touch me more. His hand, huge and powerful, was utterly gentle as he cupped my ass, one side only, for a moment. Squeezed. Gathered the other side in his hand, massaged. Explored each taut round globe, moaning and murmuring—whether from my fist slowly plunging up and down his erection or at the feel of my ass, I wasn’t sure, and didn’t care, because that moan, those murmurs, wordless and distinctly rapturous, was like a drug. I needed more. The rumble of his voice, the bass vibrations against my chest, the tense need in each sound…
More, god. More.
His hand slid up my bare back, traced the S of my spine. Gathered the falling sheaf of my hair and tossed it over the other side. Out of the way. His touch slid over my waist, my side. I stopped breathing as he paused, and then cupped my breast. I ached at this tender touch. Whimpered as his rough paw brushed delicately over my nipple, bringing it erect.
“My nipples are very, very sensitive,” I whispered. “Like, crazy sensitive.”
He looked at me, curious. Aroused beyond all ability to even think clearly. Ever so gently, his eyes on mine, he pinched my nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting, flicking. “That so?”
I gasped, eyes squeezing shut as lightning seared through me, falling over to lay beside him, one thigh over his. “Ohhh god. Super, super, crazy sensitive. I’ve even had a breast orgasm, a couple times. Well, once, that was a real all the way orgasm. Couple other times it was just a heightening of a regular one.” A whimper, a moan. “Gave it to myself, though.”
He watched as I writhed under his touch. “Damn.”
I’d stopped stroking him, so lost was I in the wild electricity of his fingers on my breast. I wanted more, of him, of me. I guided his other hand to my breasts, and sighed in pure bliss as he toyed with me, as if he seemed to just know exactly how I liked to be touched. My core was pressed against his thigh and hip, and I writhed against him. Felt him filling my hands, both of them, as I resumed my slow caresses of his huge arousal.
He was groaning, and his hips were lifting. I forced my eyes to open, watched him. He was lost in this as much as I was—more. Eyes closed, head tipped back, spine arched, hips flexing. Even my breasts were momentarily forgotten as I began increasing the speed of my caress.
Not too much, not too fast. I wanted this to last. Wanted him to remember. To have this seared into his memory. I wasn’t a jealous or possessive person, but with him, for some reason, I wanted nothing more than for this experience to scorch away all other memories. I wanted him to have no one in his mind, in his memory but me, no touch but mine rising in his mind whenever he was alone.
I rolled against him, crushing my tits against his ribs and taking his lips. He groaned, and his hands caught me, pressed gently but implacably against my nape, taking the kiss deeper. I felt him moan, felt the buzz and rumble of it, tasted his tongue and swallowed his groan. Kissed him deeper, demanding more from him. Wanting everything from him.
Stroked him, caressed him. Kissing and kissing, I put all my desire for him into the slow sensual grinding of my hands down his length, twisting on the way up, pausing at the top to flutter and twist and rub my thumb over the weeping tip. He lost the kiss, head flopping back.
“Ohhh god, Cass—oh god, Cass.” His voice was low, rough. “What the hell are you doin’ to me?”
There was no reason to answer that. Nothing to say to it. I just kissed his throat in response, under his chin where his beard line was. The hollow between his neck and shoulder. Stroking and caressing, as slowly as ever. Feeling him rising, feeling him swell in my hands, feeling his hips begin to pump. Kissed lower, his chest. His belly.
His hipbone.
“Cassie, ohhh god,” he whispered, every syllable piano-wire taut.
I pressed my lips to his ear. “Give it to me, Ink. Let me feel you come.” I went slow, slowing down as his hips began to flex rhythmically. “Show me how it feels for you. Let me hear you.”
“So—so fuckin’—” He lost the train of his thoughts. Started over. “So fuckin’ good, Cass. God, I’ve never felt this way before. God, Cassie—please, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
I laughed. “Why the hell would I stop? I want you to come. Let me feel it, Ink. All of it.” I cupped his balls, stroked him root to tip, twisting at the top and gliding down, paused at the top and pulsed my fist around the plump round head quickly, until he tilted his hips up hard, and then I plunged down again, beginning the cycle over.
He curled his body upward, straining forward. “Ohhh shit, Cass. I’m—ahhh god, oh shit…I’m gonna come.”
I watched eagerly, everything inside me begging for me to climb on him, to take this huge magnificent incredible organ inside me and ride it until I couldn’t come any more. Or, to take as much of him into my mouth as I could manage, and taste all the cum that was about to spurt out of him, swallow it all and milk for more. I wanted to make him lose his mind. I wanted be all he could ever think about. I wanted him to lose control so beautifully that he just had to take me, to have more of me. The urge to come the only thing he could even imagine was all-consuming. I wanted more than anything to just be his, and the sudden ferocity of that need scared me stupid.
So I did none of the things I really wanted to do.
I don’t think I’d given a handjob since high school, but it was just the only thing possible. Anything else would be going too far, too soon, for him and for me.
But I was absolutely ravenous for him. For his release. For his wildness. For his raw unfiltered masculine climax.
He growled, an ursine snarl of exertion, flexing into my hand. Wanting more. Needing me to give him more, to take him there.
Ink flopped back to the grass, pressing his heels into the dirt and pushing his hips up. Groaning, long and low and feral. I kept going, slowly, twisting downward and fluttering upward. Never the same thing twice, until I felt him pulse and twitch, heard his breath catch and his voice break.
“Cass…” a broken whisper, my name chanted. “Cass, Cass, Cassie, god, Cassie…”
“Yes, Ink, for you. Just for you. All for you.” Faster, then, feeling him reach the utter edge. “Give me all of you, Ink. Right now. Come for me. Come all over my hands. I want to feel it. I want it. I want you, Ink. I want you. I want you.” I really had no clue what I was saying, or why, just that I knew he needed my voice, needed to hear me. How I knew I couldn’t have said, but I knew.
He shouted, a hoarse, guttural, wordless cry as he came. At the moment of his release, his eyes snapped open and met mine, and I didn’t look away, held his gaze as he came all over his stomach and my hands, spurting again and again as I continued stroking him until he had nothing else to give.
Our eyes locked, a sticky mess all over him and me both, he just stared. Seeming amazed.
I ached, oh how I ached.
I had told him I expected nothing in return, and I meant it. But god, how I hoped. I had never needed an or
gasm so badly in all my life.
After a long silent moment, he climbed slowly to his feet, gathered his shorts and my shirt and bra, and extended a hand to me. Tugged me to my feet. Didn’t let go, but walked with me through the woods back toward his home. Naked in the woods, bathed in moonlight and cool air—my nipples stood achingly hard, diamond points, the cool air swirling over them. He moved with silent grace despite his size, leading me to the kitchen door, which was bathed in shadows. Led me inside. Tossed our clothing on the floor.
Used a wad of paper towel to clean himself with while I washed my hands.
Standing in silence, he just stared at me. Thinking.
“What, Ink? Say whatever it is you’re thinking.” I resisted the urge to cover my breasts with my arms, instead standing bold, bare. Wondering what he was thinking. How he felt about what had just happened.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything in return—”
“Ink, you don’t—“
He palmed the small of my back, tugged me up against him, his slack manhood pressed against my belly, residual stickiness tacky against my skin. I didn’t mind that—only wondered if maybe it meant we’d get to take a shower together. He stared down at me.
“I really hope you were tellin’ the truth when you said there wasn’t anything I could want that you wouldn’t give.”
“I was. God’s honest truth. I want it all. More than you can imagine.” My voice quavered, my own need getting the better of me, my legs shaking, knees pressed together, ache low in my belly growing as his hand descended to cup my backside.
“Still scared shitless of wanting too much,” he whispered. “Of just being too much.”
“I’m not scared, Ink.”
“Maybe you should be,” he murmured. “Not sure you understand what you just started.”
My grin was darkly amused, wildly aroused. “Show me what you mean, Ink. I dare you.”
Ink
Her eyes were wild. Alive with need. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so manic with sexual ferocity in my life.
I shouldn’t have been able to feel a thing, not after the way she’d just milked every last drop of seed out of me, especially after having gone once already by myself. But I had her half-naked in my hands, beautiful small pert firm breasts with those hypersensitive nipples pointed slightly upward, as if begging for my mouth. She’d given me a gift of such precious beauty that I doubted I could ever communicate its worth to her—somehow, what she’d just done had shown me that she was for real. That she truly did want me. That she wasn’t afraid. That I could let go, a little bit, at least, and that I wouldn’t hurt her. I wasn’t “healed,” if there even was such a thing. I was still scared of hurting her, and an insidious little voice way down deep was still whispering poisonous thoughts—she’ll turn on you when you least expect it; she doesn’t REALLY want you; she’ll find a way to blame something on you, just wait, you’ll see; she has no idea what she’s asking for, thinking she can handle you; you’re going to hurt her, it’s what you do; she doesn’t really want you, she doesn’t really want you…
For A Goode Time Call... Page 13