Breakfast on Tuesday

12. Wet girl

Dante withdrew from me and I turned my head to look at him. A small frown modified the area between his eyebrows when he looked down and regarded his erection as if he was inspecting it.

In turn, I followed his gaze. His pulsating erection - with a condom on it, thank God - had a smear of red blood on it. My eyes widened as he climbed on the bed, causing the mattress to dip under his weight.

"It's just blood, Carla," he said, reaching for me. He sat down and flipped me over until I was sitting on his lap in a straddling position.

His hard cock rested on his stomach and he pulled me closer until my crotch made contact with his shaft. Cupping my jaw, his lips rose to meet mine. This kiss was softer, almost a whisper, but it was enough to send all my nerve endings on overdrive.

He said he wasn't going to take it easy on me, but this, this was nice. Nicer than listening to all my favorite songs on repeat. A hell of a lot nicer. Dante's lips on mine were fucking magnificent.

His tongue followed next, plunging into my mouth with a skillfulness that floored me.

I think those French people were on to something when they came up with the French kiss. Something magical and transcending.

Did they invent it, though?

Who cares! Leave the history lesson for another time. Just be thankful Dante is a pro at kissing the heck out of a lady.

He sure was. I didn't have anyone to compare him to, but that was totally irrelevant. Everything and everyone were irrelevant right now except Dante and his spectacular mouth.

The more he kissed me, the more I felt my mind escaping to somewhere I'd never been before. Somewhere beautiful and remarkably serene like an untouched landscape one moment, and then awfully turbulent like the ocean with a storm approaching in the distance.

Discovering uncharted territory was an experience like no other. I couldn't figure out which sensation to focus on. There were too many options:

His delicious tongue... Wreaking havoc better than a hurricane ever could.

The steady drum of his heartbeat beneath my hand... A tribute to an ancient ritual celebrating the cycle of life and death.

The heat rising from his chiseled torso... A reminder of warmer days gone by.

The hardness of his arousal pressing against my stomach... A promise of what was still to come.

The tightening sensation between my legs... Reminding me that it longed to be filled by something thick and long.

The heaviness of my breasts... Told me that these suckers weren't only good for breastfeeding because before today they never really served a purpose except making wearing certain clothes nearly impossible because of their size.

Dante released a long grunt in my mouth and his large palm reached upward and covered my breast, his fingers squeezing the round globe, gently, firmly, weighing it first and then the other.

My nipples hardened, loving the way he rolled them between his fingers as he simultaneously explored every inch of my mouth with his brutal tongue. He pinched my nipple roughly and I whimpered, wrapping my arms around his neck to ground me.

He tore his lips from mine and regarded me with a serious gaze before lowering his mouth to my now sensitive nipple. His wet tongue covered my areola and he drew the firm peak into his hot and hungry mouth.

My waist started moving on its own accord, grinding my clit against his raw shaft. I moved my hips in a circle and then back and forth, adding more pressure and friction on each round. I heaved for air when he grabbed my ass with one hand, pressing me down on his arousal, while he cupped my breast with the other, and then proceeded to fuse our lips in a wild dance of tango.