One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One 3)

That was it for discussion. On with the show. He put his lips to work tasting her, his hands to work stroking her, shaping her limbs and molding her breasts and her arse, sifting her hair through his fingertips, exploring to find all the touches she liked in all the places that turned her on.

When she wrapped her hand around his cock and flicked the dumbbell, he lowered his head to watch. She didn’t need his help to know what he liked, had him trembling, gritting his teeth with her firm hold, the slide and twist action of her wrist. She made a move to slip to her knees and he stopped her. Much as the idea of being in her mouth made his head spin, he was too far gone not to lose it and the only place he wanted to lose it was inside her vagina.

Then she said please, looking up at him from her knees, flushed and wild-haired and pink-lipped and he knew himself to be the richest man in the fucking world.

And she was a goddess with a wicked lick and a devastating mouth and a hunger that made him tremble as she owned him, cock, balls, mind, soul.

He was gone, gone, rolling back onto the bed, back arched, eyes slammed shut as his orgasm rocketed through him. She drank every drop, and when he was wrung dry, she licked her lips like he’d offered her a gourmet favorite.

This woman was a heart attack before he was old enough. A blood clot that could stop him dead. She was hot enough to burn him alive.

That lick lip, the voracious look on her face, acted like a stimulant, washed him through with a bust of energy. He reached for her, urged her off her knees to lay over him, where he took her mouth intent on understanding the surprise of her.

He’d had it all wrong from the beginning. There was nothing cold about her, nothing too controlled. That sedate clothing and competent manner were her camouflage, the rubber suit she wore to hide the real Mena from the world, and just as well because the real Mena was fucking dangerous.

That lesson was written in the taste of her mouth, in the weight of her breast and the curve of her hip. She taught him everything he needed to know to please her with her scent and her sighs with the undulation of her back and the tension in her thighs. He made a thorough study of her skin and the lush shape of her, hollows and swells and secret sensitive places that made her groan and writhe. Places inside her that demanded his tongue, the curling of his fingers, the nudging of a knuckle.

And he used that knowledge to make her spine bow and her neck arch and her toes curl, to make her shake and scratch and bite his shoulder. To make her want more, to make him eager to please in a way that made his blood sing.

Mena was deft with the condom. She was outrageously sexy lowering herself onto him, and she short-circuited his brain riding him, palms braced on his chest, boobs bouncing, pelvis rolling and bucking, meeting his thrusts with a rhythm that made him feel a violent need to come and take her with him and then do it again and again till they both had nothing left to give.

In between sets, he wanted to hold her tenderly, kiss her gently and find out about all the things that make her feel good, all the things she worried about, got excited about, hoped for.

As far as song lists go, it was the best one he’d come up with in forever.

ELEVEN

Sex with Grip wasn’t like Mena remembered it, despite that familiar fun piercing.

It was a revelation.

Everything he was; confident, energetic, giving, easy, fun, made Mena more able to be her whole self, as if they were tuned into each other’s rhythm and melody.

With Grip she wasn’t too greedy or too demanding. She wasn’t too eager or too inventive. Things other partners had alluded to on their way out the door. With Grip, she could ask for what she wanted and know he’d go there with her. She could test his capacity for generosity and never reach its limits.

It was as if they vibrated on the same frequency, hellbent on chasing sensation and wringing the pleasure out till it twisted into a sweet agony of release.

She’d never known anything like it with anyone else and never appreciated what she’d walked away from until now.

And she’d never thought a man discarding a condom could be so sexy.

She sat in the wrecked bed with the sheet tangled around her crossed legs and watched him walk into her en suite bathroom for the second time. He was all bounce-a-quarter-off-it muscle, his body so solid, finding he still had sensitive spots, along his ribs, his neck, the crest of his hip bones was a delight.

He’d been muscle fifteen years ago too, but much leaner. He wore a man’s body now in the same way she wore a woman’s, no longer the skinny stick with boobs she’d been. He did seem very into the fact she wasn’t all elbows and knees and ribs that were visible now.

He was ticklish too. That she’d remembered correctly, taking care to moderate her touch so he felt it as her need to get closer to him and not an irritant. It wasn’t difficult. She did need to be close to him. As if her bones called to his, her blood was bonded with his.

Starlight, she was being fanciful. It’s what great sex after a long drought could do.

What great sex with a man you once idolized and who does a very credible performance of idolizing you could do.

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom grinning at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” So many thoughts crowding her head. None fit to share. A considerable number of them dedicated to praising Prince Albert and the man who wielded him like a divine scepter of sexual pleasure.

Two strides he was back on the bed with a leap to his knees. “That was not a nothing look.”

She should be exhausted. It was late, and they’d worked each other over with a kind of intensity that was leveling, but she felt alive in a way that was foreign and intoxicating. “What kind of a look was it?”