I don’t want to be pure, I don’t say. I want him to grab the back of my head and use me for his pleasure. I want to be dirty, filthy, vile.
His.
He climbs on top of me, his weight held up by his forearm. His mouth finds my neck while his hand glides up my side. His kisses leave a trail of wetness down my chest, and he’s so fucking close. His hand covers my breast, gently touching, exploring, and I lift my knees, squeeze my legs together, try to create friction to ease out my release.
He’s so slow.
So methodical.
I close my eyes, waiting, waiting.
And then his mouth is on my nipple, tasting, teasing, and I jerk in response, my entire body in flames. My legs shake, toes curl, as I reach up, my fingers curling in his hair. “Oh, god,” I whisper, and his mouth moves from one breast to the other. I’m so hot, so turned on, I fear that I could combust. Right here. Right now. But then I feel the backs of his fingers slide down my stomach and tease at the waistband of my underwear. I lift my head, look down at him, but he’s already watching me, his tongue swirling around my pointed flesh. Then he parts his lips, taking my breast in his mouth, and then slowly, slowly, drags his teeth back, biting gently. My core pulses, releasing evidence of my pleasure, and then his hand lowers, past the smattering of hair, and he says, almost undoing me completely, “Spread those perfect fucking legs for me, baby.”
“Oh, god,” I breathe out, and my knees fall apart, and I’m open. To him. For him.
He moans against my breast when he feels how wet he’s made me. And then he uses that wetness and presses the tip of his finger to separate my folds, the length of two fingers sliding against my clit. “Leo,” I beg, holding him to me. “I can’t take much more.”
“You’ll take it all,” he says, so lazy and free.
I plead with him, “Kiss me!”
And so he does. He kisses me like a man dying of thirst, and I’m his oasis. I try to reach down, to touch him, skin on skin, to circle my fingers around his cock and return the pleasure he’s giving me. He’s too tall, and I can’t reach, and he says against my mouth, pulling his hips away, “You first, Mia.”
I’m nothing but shallow breaths and sweat and fire. And he won’t stop teasing, and I can’t stop thrusting because I need more, more, more, and I’m so close to the edge, I beg, “Please, Leo.”
He smiles against my mouth, right before his fingers slide inside me. I gasp, the sudden pain so extreme it catches my breath and locks up every muscle. I don’t know if it’s a loud cry or a whimper that comes out of me. Tears prick my eyes from the sharpness of the ache between my legs, and before I can stop them, they’re out, and they’re free, and Leo is watching me, his fingers stilled, but deep inside. “Mia,” he breathes out, and there’s no color in his face. Eyes wide, he slowly, carefully, pulls out of me, and I choke on a sob, on my fear and shame. He looks down at his fingers, the tips smeared with my pleasure mixed with innocence. It’s not a lot of blood, but it’s enough for him to know, and he looks up at me, his lips parted. Not a single breath leaves him in the seconds I stare at him. And then he’s up, moving so fast, my pathetic eyes can’t track him. He’s at the kitchen sink, washing my filth off his fingers. “You should’ve fucking told me, Mia!” he yells over his shoulder.
I pull my knees up to my chest, suddenly too exposed, and murmur, “You never asked.”
“You’ve been with your boyfriend for a year!” he accuses, standing in front of me again, his hands on his hips. “I just assumed…”
I don’t hear anything else he says because my mind catches on the word boyfriend, and it stays there, mocking me, ridiculing me, reminding me of my sins. I pick up my shirt and shrug it back on. My legs wobble when I first stand on them, and my feet are lead. Every step feels like a thud against the floorboards. “We’d all hear that fat heifer coming up the stairs!”