His gaze doesn’t leave mine for a moment as takes me again, his hands on my hips, on my fair, shimmering skin, guiding me out of the kitchen’s darkness, away from my minute of respite, pressing me back into the golden lamplight, into the cold stuccoed arch.
But it isn’t the unforgiving chill of the wall that curves my back, that has my fingers grasping, clawing, that compels my body to seek out his hard, masculine flesh, that sends a violent ripple clear through me.
It is his touch, hot and heavy, insistent on my neck, my breasts, the flat line from my abdomen to my naked mound. It is his mouth, feasting off the lips bruised by his kiss, feeding off my hungry, seeking tongue. It is his imposing body, kneeling before me, wordlessly demanding my desire, my passion, silently possessing me as he plunges two rough digits into this slick and greedy velvet, fingering, fucking, crooked to find that gloriously maddening spot, his tongue intermittently lashing out, raking over my clitoris, his forearm tense, giving its strength, its speed, its sweet brutality, his fingers thrusting, fucking, fucking me hard, fingering me harder, his eyes calling me, commanding me to obey, daring me to defy, his eyes, his fingers, his body, his thick and straining cock needing my fire, my libations, my blistering glisten, my moan, my scream, the hot pool of my come.