Tastes Like Candy

Nine

Nine

Michelle

This was the joy of being with older men: their expertise.

Candy tangled his fingers in her hair and held her close. Gently assaulted her mouth, tongue plunging and retreating, working her jaw wider with a careful press of his thumb behind her ear. It was like he knew that it took her a while to warm up, that she wasn't a zero to sixty kind of girl. That she wanted to taste her lover first, and melt slowly.

Her hands wandered. Across the broad expanse of his chest. The hard endcaps of his shoulders. Up his throat, his pulse thumping strong against her questing fingers. His jaw, the flex of muscle and tendon, the clean hard edges of bone, alive with movement as he kissed her.

Masculine, vital, lethal and big, all of him. And she wanted him. Was feverish for more.

He knew, somehow. Broke away from her mouth, trailed his lips across her face, her jaw, down her throat. Each touch of his lips to her skin sent a fresh jolt of awareness through her. An all-over tightening of her skin, a prickly, painful rushing in her veins.

She was ready for bed, and wasn't wearing a bra beneath her shirt, so that when he drew it off over her head, the cool air scattered gooseflesh across her chest.

Candy pulled back so he could look at her, eyes bright. Heat rushed beneath her skin. A fast flash of self-consciousness. He'd been with so many women, some of them surgically-enhanced, no doubt. Would she measure up? Would he –

All worry vanished as he murmured in obvious satisfaction, reaching with both hands to cover her breasts. Warm, work-roughened palms chafing at her nipples. Strong, knowledgeable fingers cupping and shaping her.

Her neck weakened as she watched, her breasts growing heavy and achy in his hands.

When he ducked his head, she speared her fingers through his hair. "Please. Oh, yes." His mouth was warm, his tongue expert against her nipple. Rhythmic suckling, first one and then the other. Until she was breathless and arching into his mouth.

He laughed, darkly, and shifted, laid her out flat on the bed in one sudden, world-tilting move. She gasped with surprise. And then he was above her, a great golden panther, expression full of wicked intent.

~*~

Candy

She was perfect, and by that he meant that she wasn't, and that was too delightful and refreshing to go unacknowledged. He hadn't known just how jaded he was until now, with this glorious girl laid beneath him like a sacrificial offering, her eyes dilated, her honey hair splashed across the pillow, her breasts shiny from his mouth.

It was all a show with his waitresses and groupies, from the posing, to the lip-biting, to the theatrical moaning. Every move was calculated, like they'd practiced in front of a mirror. Their tans were fake, their nails professionally lacquered. They slathered themselves in lotions, oils, creams and perfumes that tasted like chemicals against his tongue.

But Michelle was nothing but clean young skin, her movements unconscious, her eyes cloudy with real desire. She was too invested in the club to be looking for danger; she was after pleasure, comfort, escape. Things he knew well.

"Candy?" she asked, doubt creeping into her voice. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at you, sweetheart." And he leaned down to kiss her again.

~*~

Michelle

He kissed her for an eternity, hands roving up and down the length of her body, pressing her leggings flush against her damp sex, teasing her. He stripped them off with a few quick tugs, and then it was his bare hand against her. God...