Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,38

blue, some logical place in my brain recognizes, just before my fingers reach their goal. I grab her and shuttle up to sitting.

With a surprised yelp, she clings to me, bringing things back into balance—our crotches line up, our bodies nested together. Her little bout of control’s pushed me far, though. There’s no restraint when I yank the cups down, fold myself in half, intent on taking one round nipple in my mouth, and then pause.

“Pink,” I grate out. “Knew it.”

And then I’m on her, licking and nipping and sucking her deep. What I’m saying’s unintelligible, a drawn-out song. Like howling.

Which is exactly how I feel right now—I’m a beast, baying at the moon, expressing…goddamnn it, ownership.

I bite her, just a little. Just to show her.

Her panting eggs me on.

The other nipple, then a nibbled path over chest and collarbone to her neck, where I clamp on as gently as I can, while my hands… Shit, they’re grasping her hips, rocking her hard, pressing, shoving dragging her down to meet every thrust I give.

I’m out of my mind. And she’s done this.

When I let go, there’s a bite mark there. There’ll be guilt when I come back to my senses, but for now, I just lick it, suckle higher, then pull back to look at where her cunt’s rubbed a wet spot on my jeans.

“Look,” I mutter. “Look at how worked up you are.”

“Yeah.”

Foreheads together, we watch this show of our own creation. Our combined scents and sounds make this the most obscene peep show I’ve ever seen. But I want more. I need more.

Keeping one arm wrapped around her, I reach down and slide my fingers between us. Her reaction is electric. “Fuck, your little pussy. Fuck it’s so gorgeous.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. Look.”

“I want…”

“What, dirty girl?” I flick her clit, teasing her into wordless, graceless grunts that’ll be the soundtrack to every jerk session until the day I die.

“I want to see you, too. Touch you.”

“Ooooh, fuck. I don’t know.”

She slows her thrusts, reminding me that I’m not always the one in charge, meets my eyes, and reaches down to my zipper, waiting. At my nod, she tugs at my button and undoes my belt.

I feel out of my mind, out of my skin, with anticipation. And then—Christ—then her cool little hands are on me. It’s not until I look up and meet her gaze that I realize just how much she’s turned the tables, tipped the scales, and left me inside out.

I’ve never felt this way. It scares the shit out of me.

16

So you think you're in love

Jerusha

“Oh, Karl.” It’s gorgeous, I almost whisper, though I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t know what to do with that. Instead, I let him hear the awe in my breathing, see it on my face, feel it in the way I hold him.

So much has happened here tonight that a part of me wants to stop and breathe, give us—okay me—time to adjust, but I’m afraid if we don’t do this now, I won’t get another chance.

I swallow, unwilling to even think about that right now, when everything is so right.

Instead of worrying about what-ifs, I let my senses guide me, let my hands enjoy how warm and solid and smooth/soft he is. I want to lean down and kiss him there so badly, but drawing it out feels better. This way, I can memorize every step, in case this is it.

He’s thick—though my only reference is the porn that I’ve glommed in the last few months. There’s a vein along one side, reminding me of his vitality, throbbing with life and blood, strength, but also scarily close to the surface. Vulnerable.

I take a second to listen to the way his breathing changes—almost wheezing when I tighten my grip on his crown, then drawing out into long, shaky gasps when I stroke farther down his shaft. With his jeans barely open and my body blocking the view, I can’t see lower.

Yet.

“Fuck, Jerusha.” His whisper’s tight, restrained. I wonder, suddenly, what he’s like when he really lets go.

It’s almost scary, the thought of all those muscles, all the flesh and blood and bone working above me, alongside me…in me.

I shudder and loosen my grip. He takes advantage of that weakness to move me off his lap and onto the sofa. I watch, obscenely half-naked with my bottom half nude and my breasts spilling over my bra. I like how crude it makes me feel…

I’m a slut. For him.

Under my stare, he stands and pulls