Page 57 of The Cruiser
“Perfect,” he says, eyeing me with a languorous smile. “I want to undress you.”
He sets his glass down on the bedside table, rearranges himself on the edge of the bed. Legs splayed wide, it’s impossible not to stare.
Big and nude, softly swollen and impossibly thick.
“I come bearing gifts,” I manage to say, handing him the silver square packet. UltraMega, which, in current company, suddenly seems woefully inadequate.
His brow raises. “Only one?”
“I have more. A bagful.”
He tosses the condom on the bed and laughs. “Of course you come prepared. And now I get the pleasure of preparing you.”
His hands land ever so gently on my waist, his touch sending a rush of heat all the way to my toes. Turning me so that I face the kitchen, my backside is the territory he’s interested in. A warm palm explores, curving over each mound, before a gentle fingertip runs down the length of each leg, all the way back up. I’m jelly under his touch, quivering, I need it so badly.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“It’s good shaking. Trust me.”
The heat of his forehead presses into the small of my back. He breathes slow and deep, the calm before the storm. “All I’ve wanted to do is touch you,” he whispers.
Slowly, he unzips my dress, fabric pooling onto the floor. His fingers along the back of my ass sear my skin, but then he witnesses the prior damage and rains kisses onto the fading bruises. “I promise I’ll be gentler.”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “You shouldn’t promise things you can’t deliver on.”
“I’ll let you be the judge on how I deliver,” he says, rising to his feet, imposing himself into my backside, heavy and blunt. He nibbles along the trembling line of my shoulder and I sink into his warmth. “Sweet Vandana,” he mumbles. “Before I take over, tell me what you want.”
I want it all. The exquisite pain before the drowning pleasure. Waking, breathing, euphoria. Spring fever in September. The kind of coming together fables and myths are built on. But how to articulate that? Seeking an answer, his hands start to roam and explore. One breaches my bra, the touch of his skin on my bare breast sending goosebumps shooting along both arms.
“Just … keep doing what you’re doing,” I mumble.
“Not to worry, I’ll get you warm soon enough.”
He’s beyond stiff behind me, a pulsing brass rod. The rough pads of his fingers coax my nipple into a tight bud. For every tweak, every moan it elicits, he surges against me. I feel powerless, my own desire a thrilling promise tugging me forward. Eventually he unclasps my bra and I shrug out of it. Warm sun fills the room, my bare breasts lit up and adored by Morgan in a love language all his own. Slowly one hand voyages south, down the flat expanse of my belly, under my thong, into the dampness between my legs.
He cups my Brazilian-ed bits, breathing ragged and erratic. “Can I?”
He’s asking?
I’m a quaking mess, drunk on Italian mountain air, not enough sleep and a need that threatens to swallow me alive. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
His fingers ease past my slick, outer folds and my thigh muscles tighten in response. Expecting a slow, delicious burn, I close my eyes in surrender. Instead, he buries one finger, swift and deep and sudden. I’m so overdue, the shock of it craters my control. A shattering orgasm rips through me, the room going black.
“Jesus, hold on,” he grunts, one arm wrapping around my waist as I spasm, shuddering and convulsing around the finger he keeps plugged tight. “You’re on fucking fire.”
The waves of pleasure constrict my throat, leaving me gasping for air. “Wait, wait,” I pant. “Slow down.”
“I can’t go much slower,” he says, laughing.
I shove his hand away, the space inside me suddenly vast and requiring something much more damaging to fill me. His muscled arm holds onto me like a belt around my waist as he offers me a sample from the finger he’s licking clean. When I don’t partake, he asks in mock offense, “You don’t approve of my finger?”
“Oh, I approve. But it’s going to be very busy. You need to last longer than me.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” he says, laughing again.
I shimmy out of his grasp and shove him playfully. He staggers back, landing hard on the bed.
“We’re playing rough?” he asks, a hint of question in his voice. His cock is swollen and pulsing, tip slick with pre-cum.
