Page 95 of Dock

And sucking on the tiny little nub that’s swelling.

And the more it swells, the more she wiggles.

Bucks.

Yanks at my hair.

Buries me deeper.

Breathlessly moans for more.

Never. Less.

The stiffening and curling of my wet muscle creates a makeshift cock for her to ride.

One which has her hastily lifting her hips, feeding me mouthful after mouthful after mouthful, so that the only thing I can feel, smell, taste is her.

Mine.

Guttural groans are followed by my speed increasing, delicious delirium determined to do all the driving.

All the diving.

Warm, thick juices continuously cover my mouth.

Nose.

Drip down my chin.

Convince my toes to curl in my riding boots so I don’t come in my fucking jeans.

You know.

Shit that shouldn’t be a fucking possibility at this point in my life.

“H…” airily escapes alongside a giant thud of her head bumping into the frame. “Right there…”

Fuck, I love when she’s vocal.

And open.

And uses her voice like that.

Ohhhhh…

Is that what she means by “knowing your voice”?

Probably not.

But something tells me I like this version better than the one she’s been trying to teach.

“Don’t stop,” she begs, heels fervently thumping into my shoulder blades. “Please, don’t stop.”

One grunt is given to acknowledge her request and that grunt adds just enough vibration to cause goosebumps to break out against my fingertips.

Fuckme, do I love how her skin prickles.

How her thighs are trembling.