He continued to watch me as he dragged my underwear down, past my thighs, along my legs, and over my feet until he could toss it over his shoulder. With that last piece gone, I was entirely bare for him, lying completely naked on the most luxurious bed I had ever seen in the most stunning room I had ever been in.
His hand cupped one of my feet. Davis lingered there at the end of the bed, massaging me as he watched me with an adulatory gaze. His eyes held a focus that was weighty and admiring and made the lump in my throat tighten.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. I kind of want to remember this,” he responded, lifting his shoulder like this was an admission of sorts.
“We’re not even at the good part yet.” I winked as I said this, which made Davis laugh softly.
“I love how confident you are.” He put down my foot and slid off of the bed.
“You don’t find it obnoxious?”
He shook his head as he pulled down his pants and his boxer briefs in one go, leaving him naked—gloriously, life-changingly, holy-shit-is this real?-naked.
But to my chagrin, he didn’t give me much time to linger on his bare body. He wove around the side of the bed and climbed on to join me, almost like he didn’t want to spend too much time on display (a ridiculous notion, in my humble opinion). His hands went to me immediately, sliding me towards him so that we were pressed against each other.
His right hand started at my cheek, slid down my neck, my shoulder, my breast, my stomach, and lower until he could cup my mound with one hand. As he swooped low to kiss me, his fingers gradually worked between my folds—until he stopped suddenly.
“Are you pierced?”
He pulled away before I could answer him. With his eyes focused on my bare slit, he hoisted himself up to a seated position so that he could study my clit. From the spot where I lay, I could see him inhale abruptly as he confirmed his suspicion: I had a hood piercing.
“Olivia.”
“Do you hate it?” I asked softly, knowing that he didn’t.
Davis shook his head and he didn’t stop for five seconds, at least. “I’ve never actually seen…holy shit.”
I loved that he really couldn’t play it cool. I loved that he was excited by it and wasn’t ashamed to show me.
I had gotten the piercing back in high school, using a fake ID. A guy I was sleeping with at the time, a real asshole, frankly, had mentioned that he thought it would be hot—and I did it because, well, he let me drive his car whenever I wanted and that made it so much easier for me to get to work. I’d ended up liking it and kept it for that reason. But about a month ago, I had almost taken it out because Professor Paul thought it was barbaric. Luckily, I kept it in—and could now experience the joy of seeing the shock on Davis’s face as he carefully ran his fingertip over the small silver piercing.
“Did it hurt?” he inquired, glancing up at my face as he posed the question.
I nearly cooed. His caress on the piercing was steadily amplifying my arousal with its gentle strokes. “A little bit.”
“Does it make you feel good?”
“Come find out,” I replied, motioning for him to lay down again with a crook of my finger—classic and cheesy, but it did the trick.
His hand stayed on my mound, but his body returned to its spot alongside mine, making me feel practically blanketed by him. When he picked up a rhythm with his strokes—spending more time on my clit than the piercing—I took his length in my hand.
“Can I—can we?” Davis spoke into my lips.
I was softly nibbling on his lower lip. “Mm?”
“Can we…”
“You want to fuck,” I filled in as I pulled back.
His expression was borderline serious, his eyes moving from one feature to the next like he was trying to take in my reaction from all sides. A nod.
“Condom?” was my response.
It was all the confirmation that he needed. He rolled off of the bed and disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, leaving me to look up at the ornate plaster decor on the ceiling. It fanned out in a swirling, classic design of Dutch Renaissance elegance—without a doubt, one of the most impressive ceilings I’d had the pleasure of seeing in any bedroom in my life.
And here I was, about to do something objectively abhorrent under it.
Fast. Make it fast, Olivia. Just get it over with.
When he returned from the bathroom, he climbed over me before I could take up my usual position: on top, where I could control the pace. It was how I preferred it; it was the easiest way to keep men from touching me more than I wanted—to keep them from deciding when I got to come. His lips took in mine before I could object, and a little kissing was all it took to convince me that I could give him a chance on top. I’d switch positions in a couple of minutes, if not sooner.
Davis lowered his head to work my tits again, lavishing them with a soft spray of kisses and licks that had my breath unsteady. Then he stopped, took himself in his hand, and looked down as he placed himself at my entrance.
There was so much precision to it. None of the awkward jamming and pressing and feeling around that so many men resorted to. With Davis it was as smooth as could be: He found the spot, placed his tip exactly where it needed to go, and he slowly began to enter me.
I shut my eyes as his length fed into my body. I waited for pain and for pressure. After a few seconds, it hadn’t come—thanks in large part, I assumed, to the careful way that he moved forwards. His thumb, which he had pressed against my clit, began to make slow, lazy circles around my piercing. Moments later, without a stitch of resistance from my own body, Davis was inside of me.
When I opened my eyes he was watching me, his face focused and his body so close to perfection as he held his massive chest up over me.
“Are you okay?”
“So good.” I gave my hips a light thrust. “Davis, I’m so good.”
That smile of his broke out on his face, and he began to meet my motions. That was when the onset of unprecedented pleasure really started to hit me. His thick length was stroking every spot, firm and delicate all at once, pulling moans out of me that I didn’t even engineer.
He lowered his body down to mine, letting our chests press together as he levered his hips up. That change in position brought out a sinful onslaught of sensation, and I cried out.
His free hand—the one that wasn’t working my clit—traveled up to my breast, clutching it firmly, possessively.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured before he kissed me.