Caramel Flava

“Yup. Can’t wait to see the inside.”

She pushed at the door. To my surprise, classic jazz welcomed us. We stepped inside and admired the marble tile. Central air-conditioning cooled us from ninety-degree summer heat.

My wife’s eyes grew wide as plates. “Que bellezal!” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, babe, upstairs. Vámonos!”

I didn’t say a word; I just did what she told me.

She skipped up the hardwood steps, giggling like a kid on her way to Magic Mountain, with me close behind her. I gazed at the crystal chandelier hanging from the mile-high ceiling, bobbed my head to the jazzy percussion and drum bass that reverberated through the house.

We reached the top of the stairs. With my wrist still locked under her tight grip, Sonya guided me toward the loft. She didn’t peep into the bedrooms, bathrooms or family room; she already knew her destination.

In the loft area stood a large pine bookcase, a La-Z-Boy recliner and two ottomans—the perfect chill spot. Sonya placed the brochures on the La-Z-Boy, stepped between the ottomans and placed her hands on the steel rail that overlooked the living room.

“All right,” she said, looking at her watch. “Solamente tenemos trece minutos.”

Thirteen minutes, huh? I thought. I didn’t waste time. Once I flipped up my wife’s dress, slid my hands under her panties and rubbed her cocoa-skinned culo, we commenced the real reason why we came to the house.

I pulled her panties down her legs and onto the floor. Her flesh warmed my hand—as if anticipation singed her flesh. I unzipped my shorts. Down to my ankles they went.

“Damn,” I said, tingles tickling my face. “We didn’t check for anybody in here.”

“No time,” Sonya replied. No fear, no hesitation in her voice. I loved her on-the-edge-of-danger nerve. “We’ll take our chances.”

The loft became the perfect lookout spot. I could see most of the living room and outside through a large window next to the front door. I surveyed our vicinity one last time before I lowered my hips and positioned myself for rear entry. Heart thumps jabbed me from within.

“Hurry up, baby,” Sonya whispered, pushing her butt against my steel-hard pinga.

I grinned. “Here I come.”

The surround sound of jazz added a seductive melody to our risky business, setting the stage for a perfect “slow dance.” Nine inches slapped Sonya’s firm butt cheeks;then I maneuvered, and slid my cock inside her. The walls of her pussy…shit…so wet! Ain’t nothin’ like it in the world.

With me swallowed up, her warmth dented my watchdog composure. It made my body relax, eyelids slump and mouth drop into a crooked grin. I wasn’t inside a $400,000 house anymore;I was inside my wife—the only place I wanted to be.

We grooved against each other, releasing sweet purrs like the sounds of the jazz player’s trumpet. I buried my forehead in the nape of her neck, her thick wavy hair rubbing against my nose and lips. Moving strands of hair, I lapped my tongue along the lines between her shoulders, tasting trickles of sweat.

“Maldito!” she cried. “You feel so good! I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

My eyelids shot open. Sonya forced me to remember our illegal sexcapade.

I twitched when I saw the chandelier, but maintained my slow, steady strokes against dark-brown cheeks reminiscent of Jennifer Lopez’s onion. I could tell Sonya’s eyes were still closed, obviously relying on me as lookout.

I checked the window next to the front door. Didn’t see anyone outside and couldn’t hear anything but my wife and jazz music. I knew that could change any second.

My heart kicked into fourth gear. I started pumping faster. Sonya’s moans grew louder, my grunts deeper. She spread her legs into a wide upside-down V and nudged her butt further against my steady grind. She felt so damn good! Fuck! My panicky thrill had collided with the explosive sensation of my cock skinny-dipping inside her—spreading my haywire hormones into an internal wildfire.

The smooth groove of trumpets resonated around us. Nice melody. I think the jazz player was Norman Brown, but who cared, anyway? Shit, I didn’t. Sonya and I made our own music.

Sweat rained down my forehead into my eyes. I gritted my teeth, then dug my nails into Sonya’s wet ass cheeks. She snapped her head back against my shoulder, expelling a sharp cry. I snaked my hand under her shirt, cupped her tetas, and then caressed her nipples. While circling deep inside her, I slowed my pace—then pounded her pussy with hard strokes. Her cries pierced the soft whine of a sax solo.

Tingles raked through my back, my legs—even my toes. I yanked my arm from under her dress, then wrapped my fingers around the rail next to her ha

nds, my hard flesh so deep inside.

Fuck!

Again, I forgot where I was. Or, maybe I didn’t care where I was. I began reaching my peak. A primal urge mushroomed in me, but I restrained myself from yanking Sonya’s hair and pile-driving into her. Our cries could’ve cracked windows.

Then I heard voices outside.