Midnight Cocktail

Midnight Cocktail - Chapter 6

Content warning: This chapter is one of the heaviest in the book for graphic descriptions of sexual activity. The sex is between two consenting adults and it is is written to be entertaining, realistic and also as amusing as I could make it. But it is very graphic. 

I had stripped down to my thong and was lying on the gold upholstered double bed by the time Shawn Horn caught up and started taking his clothes off.

He wasn't particularly slow, just marginally out of his league. I'm not the sort of person who is going to walk into a penthouse suite with the intention of fucking someone's brains out and then waste time cooing over the quality of the drapes.

It was all good, though. I got to watch the Shawn Horn strip show from the comfort of the thick, quilted top sheet, with no distractions.

His body was lean and naturally muscular, evenly tanned and recently, comprehensively depilated. I'm fine with body hair, within reason, but a buff, waxed guy like him is always going to be easy on the eye. And, from what I had seen already, dynamite in the sack.

He stood at the foot of the bed, stroking himself to a magnificent, fully erect eleven inches of wrist-thick portable entertainment while he watched me slipping my panties off. I was lying on my back with my knees bent and my feet pointing at the ceiling. I gave up on the demure approach around 1750 and, no, I do not mean ten to six in the evening.

"Get over here," I said, parting my thighs and sliding my fingers between them. "You look like you're dying for something to eat."

He came to me on the bed, touching me for the first time with those big, wonderful hands. He had one of them behind me, in the small of my back, and the other one was covering my left breast.

I pulled him down and kissed him on the mouth, tasting the ghost of weak lite beer on his tongue and breathing in the subtle aroma of his aftershave.

"Ruby," he sighed into my open mouth. There was still a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

I was having none of that.

"Eat my pussy," I said. I don't fuck around with ambiguity. That's something else I've learned, not that it didn't take me a few hundred years to figure it out.

He swarmed down my body, allowing my nipples a brief visit from his lips before kissing an urgent path straight across my stomach to the smoothly waxed skin between my thighs.

I was half up on my elbows, looking down, watching him. He knew his way around a woman's body the way a world class racing driver knows the lines and passing sweet-spots on every championship track. And he knew when to hold back, when to drop a gear and burn to the finish.

He kissed the tops of my thighs, moving in closer and closer while his fingers stroked and spread the outer lips of my pussy.

When he put his mouth against me and I felt his tongue slide along the slick lips until it nudged my swollen, tingling clitoris, I knew the camera hadn't lied.

He licked my clit with the tantalisingly light, insistent rhythm that usually only another woman understands. I was wet, and getting wetter by the second, rolling my hips, squirming against the pressure of his lips and tongue, my fingernails tearing through the sheet as I gripped great bunches of it in my fists.

He didn't stop.

He stayed down there for endless, delicious minutes, his fingers joining his tongue inside me, and I felt my whole body giving in, following the swirling spiral of focussed ecstasy that was spreading out from my centre. My nipples were bullets of engorged desire and I was squeezing them hard, gasping aloud as I hurtled towards my climax.