“I like butterflies,” she managed to say. “I kind of feel them, you know. Their spirit.” She swallowed. Rocky’s thumb had reached slyly round to the hollow at the back of her neck and was pressing into it, unleashing spectacular sensation and a telling dampness at her crotch.
“You’re a butterfly? Can’t choose which flower to settle on?”
“In a way. I like to be free.”
“You want to watch someone doesn’t come along with a bloody great net, then. I can imagine someone wanting to pin you down by the wings.”
She dared to look up at his face. “Can you?”
“Ohhh, yes,” he crooned, and then he was leaning down and into her, and the sharp tips of his stubble prickled her, and lips that were hard and soft at the same time made their demands known.
Flipp had guessed he would kiss like this, imperiously and urgently, holding her fast with a hand at the back of her neck, but it still felt like a luscious revelation. The rush and clatter of shingle beneath the waves provided a fitting soundtrack to this unexpected passion strike, which was broken off only for him to urge her to discard the “stupid bloody jacket,” which she did eagerly, with jittery fingers, to press up all the closer. The layers of thin cotton did little to restrain their open-air ardour. Their arms and legs entwined, their tongues twirled together and still they were not close enough. Still they needed to close up every particle of space between them.
Stretched up on tiptoes, Flipp hooked an elbow around Rocky’s neck, clinging for dear life while he ravaged her mouth. At the base of her stomach, she could feel a hard, leather-covered bulge. She wanted to climb up this solid wall of man and sit astride it, feeling it where it needed to be felt—between her legs. She could see why Rocky treasured his bike—they were of a kind: powerful, attractive, embodying freedom of spirit.
As if he could read her mind or her smell or the frantic language of her hands, Rocky lifted Flipp off the shingle and perched her at waist level so that she could wrap her legs around his hips, kicking her heels joyously against his tight leather arse while their communion kiss grew still deeper and stronger. Surges of pleasure and need whizzed along Flipp’s neural pathways, all over her body until they gathered in her groin, building up and up into a ferment of wetness and wanting that had her bucking herself into Rocky’s pelvis. Her denim miniskirt was rucked around her thighs now and her knickers must have been transferring their soaked warmth to Rocky’s T-shirt, even through her leggings. He pulled down the spaghetti straps of her layered vest tops and grabbed a handful of breast before wrenching himself out of the kiss to snarl, “You need a good fuck.”
Flipp could hardly disagree but managed to gasp, “What? Here?”
“If you want.” His eyebrows expressed the query. Her playful nipping of the side of his neck answered it. Rocky began to march up the beach, into the sheltered backshore at the foot of the cliffs. Larger rocks were strewn amidst the fallen scree and Rocky chose one to lower her onto.
“Is this, um, safe?” she asked, eyeing the sheer limestone and chalk that stretched up to the skyline.
“What? Fucking me? Of course not,” said Rocky, tugging brutally at his belt. “Get your knickers down.”
“No, I mean…the cliffs. Landslides,” she explained, nonetheless lying back to struggle out of her leggings and leopard-print knickers, careless of her braless breasts exposed by the wrenched-down vests. The cool air stiffened her nipples almost painfully, but she was far beyond caring now.
“As long as we keep our distance,” Rocky said, pulling his belt taut with a crack before throwing it down on top of the jacket. “This isn’t the worst place for landslides by a long chalk—if you pardon the pun. The only earth moving around here is going to be underneath you, sweetheart.”
He fell to his knees at the base of her rock and shoved her skirt up around her waist. Above her the cliffs looked as if they were falling, an illusion caused by white clouds travelling slowly behind them. Flipp imagined them collapsing on top of the pair, enveloping them in a cloud of chalk while she and Rocky continued to rut in the rubble, aware of nothing else but their animal need for each other. Her vision dissolved as his still-gloved hands roughly parted her thighs; she looked down at his face, handsomely savage, peering along the channel of her spread legs to salivate over their centre. Oh God, she thought suddenly, we’ve only just met and here we are, on a rock, with my muff staring him directly in the eye. Should I have waited? She looked again at his razor cheekbones and powerful shoulders and answered herself—no. Gift horses, mouths, all that. He was the sexiest man she had ever encountered. Letting him shrug and move on to the next willing partner was not an option.
“Like what you see?” she asked, giving her hips a brazen little wiggle.
“Oh yes,” he replied with relish, making to remove his gloves. Flipp meeped a little and tried to struggle up, shaking her head at him.
“Keep them on?” she ventured.
He laughed again, such richness and depth to his amusement. “Kinky girl, eh?” She blushed and shrugged as if to say she didn’t really care what he chose to do. “Good. That’s the way I like ’em. Okay, if it turns you on, sweetheart, I’ll keep the gloves.”
He laid a leathery hand on each of her thighs, rubbing and massaging them, moving ever upwards until he arrived at the destination they both wanted. The leather was dry and smooth on her dewy fat lips; Flipp imagined it shining and sliding with her outpourings. His thumbs held the slit wide, ready for him to dip his head down and inhale the scent of her need for him. “Hmm, you don’t take long to heat up, do you, sweetheart?” Each word delivered a warm blast of breath over her clit. She moaned and squirmed, pleasurably ashamed, shamefully pleasured. One of his fingers, fat and thick in its hide coating, poked its way up inside her, digging and swivelling until it was clear there was room for one more. And then another. The three sleek black probes started out slowly but gained in pace, ramming back and forth while the thumb of his other hand attended to her clitoris. Pressure built up around his fingers until it was almost unbearable, and she knew she was going to explode messily all over his hands, too soon, much too soon. She needed to hang on…
“You’re going to come, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he rasped, darting out his tongue to lap up the flowing juices, and hanging on flew out of the question just as Flipp’s orgasm flew out of her, drenching the leather and draining her body until she was twitching and spent on her rock. “Mmm, you couldn’t help yourself, could you?” he murmured admiringly. “Can I take these off now?” He removed his gloves, trailing the flapping fingers of the one that
had finger-fucked her across Flipp’s cheeks and lips, right under her nose, treating her to her own strong scent, until a silvery web of her own essences crisscrossed her face.
“I want to feel you,” he whispered, dropping the gloves and cupping her tits, with their swollen, sensitised nipples, in his large rough hands. His lips covered hers again, his tongue lunged, his hands squeezed and the lump in his crotch ground against her wet pussy. “I want to fuck you,” he clarified. “That’s what you want too, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” she agreed, her hands in his thick black hair, her mouth on his metallic-tasting skin.
“Tell me.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“How?”
“Long and hard, really long, really hard.”
“I can do that, sweetheart.” He prised himself off her and stood. “But you can’t lie on that rock—you’ll bruise your spine. Here.” He put out a hand to pull her up. Her legs were like water and she was dizzy. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers with thrilling deliberation, smirking and glinting at her under his black eyebrows.