of all races equally, and religion and politics and everything in between. Nothing and no one is safe. He’s a master of satire and social commentary, and funny as hell. You must have seen a weak episode.”
I take a step closer, lifting the hem to expose the smooth skin of her waist. I pull the shirt over her head and toss it into a corner. Her hair settles back around her shoulders, falling forward so her naked breasts poke through the dark strands.
“Forget Dave Chappelle,” I say huskily.
I could write a sonnet to Bristol’s nipples, the way they tip her breasts, the blend of pink and brown, roses and chocolate, shading her areola. I lean down to hover over them, my eyes snaring hers. Anticipation thickens the air.
“I wanna do to you what spring does to the cherry trees,” I whisper, paraphrasing the Neruda poem before taking one nipple in my mouth and laving it with my tongue. Like a flower waiting for spring, she blossoms. She blooms like sweet fruit ripening between my lips. I pull away, but her hands urge me back to her breast, pleasure tightening her pretty features.
I ghost my lips over the other neglected nipple. Where at first I was sweet, now I’m all teeth and rough suction, stretching my mouth, wide and hungry, over the other breast. Where I laved the other nipple, this one I lash with my tongue. Her nails sink into my shoulders and she fills the room with whimpers. I release her nipple, satisfied by the vivid red marks slashing the delicate skin. Breath fights to free itself from her lungs, laboring past her lips, heaving her breasts. I gently turn her around by the hip to face the bed and almost bite my fist at the sight of her.
Thong.
Teeny, tiny thong. Ass out.
I coax her panties down her legs, inch by torturous inch. When she’s a naked, lithe stretch of lines and curves, I reach around to cup her breasts, tugging on those nipples until they peek between my fingers. Bristol’s breathing grows more ragged and she presses her back into my chest, circling her ass into my crotch.
I really wanted that blow job, but I’m not sure there will be time for that tonight. One hand stays right where it is, toying with her nipple as the other hand dips between her legs.
“Can you open for me?” I dust kisses across the elegant slope of her shoulders. She widens her stance no more than an inch, but I’ll take a mile. I press the flat of my hand between her legs and the thick, wet lips of her pussy press into my palm. I vary the cadence of strokes over her clit until she’s pumping into my hand, her hips chasing every thrust and her cries dying in her throat before they hit the air.
“Oh, God, Grip.” Her voice verges on a sob. Even when she vises around my fingers, I don’t let up the passionate pace between her thighs.
“That’s it, baby.” I drop to my knees, dragging my tongue down the smooth center of her back and over her ass. I clip the sweet flesh of each cheek between my teeth, relishing her startled gasp. Slowly, I press my hand to her back, bending her at the waist until she bows on the bed, on her knees. I scoot her forward, tilting her chest down and her ass in the air. With a rear view of her spread wide for me, I swipe my tongue down the inside of her thighs, drinking from the silky skin, wet with her juices.
“I’m getting drunk on you,” I mutter.
“Grip.” My name shatters on her lips, but it’s not enough. I want her unintelligible. I suckle her clit and slip two fingers in, smiling against her pussy when she pants into the duvet. I stand and strip then run my cock up and down her divide, soaking in her wetness as she presses back into me, offering me more.
“You have to fuck me now.” Her plea is breathless and urgent. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes glassy. “Please, right now.”
Her eyes beg me. Her pussy weeps for me. The complete surrender in every line of her body undoes me, the last strands of control snapping and popping as they give. The wild, loose parts of me grab her hips and flip her onto her back. I push her legs wide until her knees almost touch her shoulders and run my