She makes a sound of disappointment and frustration, and though my own body echoes it, I’m strong enough to stand resolute as long as I’m standing between her thighs.
“How do you know I’m not already running?” she breathes. But her hand is gripping at my hair, her hips are bucking against mine, and her breath is ragged.
“You are . . . running toward me,” I say at the same time I pull the hem of her scrub top over her head.
I don’t let her argue, not now when I’m seeing the most gorgeous pair of tits I’ve ever seen for the first time. She’s wearing a plain black cotton bra, intended for function, not seduction.
But her tits swell up in the cups, pale, lush mounds I want to squeeze and taste.
“Damn, Zo. So pretty,” I tell her, cupping her so that both of my hands are full. She arches, and I mold her flesh with my hands, teasing over the raised nipples I can feel beneath the fabric. I lay a path of kisses along the edge of her bra as my hands sneak around to her back to unclasp it, and Zoey shrugs her shoulders to help remove it.
As the bra drops to the island, I finally fill in the blanks I’ve imagined, the slope of her breasts as they fall naturally, the tawny color of her nipples against her pale flesh, and as I bend down to taste her, the salty sweetness of her skin.
“Mmm.” She moans as I twirl my tongue in a circle around the hard nub, copying the move with my thumb on the other breast. I suck and lick, nibble and tweak, taking my time as I learn what she likes and enjoying every little sound she makes.
My hands find their way to her thighs, squeezing the strong muscles as I move higher toward her core. She spreads wider to give me room to work, and at the clear sign of permission, I untie her pants to slip my hand inside. Her panties feel like plain cotton too, no fancy lace or high-cut sexiness.
But the idea that she’s as unprepared for this as I am is incredibly hot. I did not go to work this morning thinking I’d end up with Zoey Walker moaning and grinding on my kitchen island, but here we are. I cup her mound, shuddering at the wetness I find soaked through the cotton at her center.
Though I’d love to taste it, I school myself to go slow and enjoy, keeping the finish line in sight.
Zoey Walker, she’s my finish line. I can feel it. Romantic whimsy? Maybe. But it feels like a real possibility. And I’ve definitely been called worse things than romantic.
So I slow down, kissing her even though she’s panting for breath and unable to kiss back, and rubbing her entire pussy through the cotton until she’s begging for more, needing me to focus on her clit. Only then do I slip my hand beneath the cotton to her bare pussy.
“So wet, so hot, Zo,” I murmur in awe, and she cries out as I circle the spot where she needs me. I dip into her entrance, spreading her juices up to her clit once again, and she spasms with sensitivity. I do it again, even slower, as I suck her nipple back into my mouth. I guide her to lie back, and she drops to her elbows, her head falling back and tits arched high.
I lick circles along her flesh, mimicking them over her clit. My kitchen island is now the altar where I worship her, and I’ll never make dinner again without remembering this moment—how gorgeous Zoey looks when she lets go, the sounds she makes as she gets closer and closer to coming, and finally, how fulfilled I feel that she’s letting me this close to her.
For a woman not easy to know, I feel like a lucky sonofabitch.
“Oh, God, I’m coming,” she says in a voice a solid octave higher than her usual tone. I don’t speed up or slow down. I keep at her exactly the same—sucking her tit, circling her clit—and enjoy every bit of her spasms and shudders as she bucks and whimpers.
She sighs as she floats back to earth, her eyes blinking unseeingly as she sags to the island top. My fingers glance over her flesh, loving her silky slickness, and though I’m sad to no longer touch her, I need to taste. I bring my fingers to my mouth to lick and suck them clean. That gets her attention, and her eyes go bright and clear as she watches through a half-lidded gaze.
“Your turn?” she says on rough vocal cords.
I look at her mouth, wanting to feel her lips surround my cock, and let my eyes draw down her half-dressed body.