Stroked him, caressed him. Kissing and kissing, I put all my desire for him into the slow sensual grinding of my hands down his length, twisting on the way up, pausing at the top to flutter and twist and rub my thumb over the weeping tip. He lost the kiss, head flopping back.
“Ohhh god, Cass—oh god, Cass.” His voice was low, rough. “What the hell are you doin’ to me?”
There was no reason to answer that. Nothing to say to it. I just kissed his throat in response, under his chin where his beard line was. The hollow between his neck and shoulder. Stroking and caressing, as slowly as ever. Feeling him rising, feeling him swell in my hands, feeling his hips begin to pump. Kissed lower, his chest. His belly.
His hipbone.
“Cassie, ohhh god,” he whispered, every syllable piano-wire taut.
I pressed my lips to his ear. “Give it to me, Ink. Let me feel you come.” I went slow, slowing down as his hips began to flex rhythmically. “Show me how it feels for you. Let me hear you.”
“So—so fuckin’—” He lost the train of his thoughts. Started over. “So fuckin’ good, Cass. God, I’ve never felt this way before. God, Cassie—please, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
I laughed. “Why the hell would I stop? I want you to come. Let me feel it, Ink. All of it.” I cupped his balls, stroked him root to tip, twisting at the top and gliding down, paused at the top and pulsed my fist around the plump round head quickly, until he tilted his hips up hard, and then I plunged down again, beginning the cycle over.
He curled his body upward, straining forward. “Ohhh shit, Cass. I’m—ahhh god, oh shit…I’m gonna come.”
I watched eagerly, everything inside me begging for me to climb on him, to take this huge magnificent incredible organ inside me and ride it until I couldn’t come any more. Or, to take as much of him into my mouth as I could manage, and taste all the cum that was about to spurt out of him, swallow it all and milk for more. I wanted to make him lose his mind. I wanted be all he could ever think about. I wanted him to lose control so beautifully that he just had to take me, to have more of me. The urge to come the only thing he could even imagine was all-consuming. I wanted more than anything to just be his, and the sudden ferocity of that need scared me stupid.
So I did none of the things I really wanted to do.
I don’t think I’d given a handjob since high school, but it was just the only thing possible. Anything else would be going too far, too soon, for him and for me.
But I was absolutely ravenous for him. For his release. For his wildness. For his raw unfiltered masculine climax.
He growled, an ursine snarl of exertion, flexing into my hand. Wanting more. Needing me to give him more, to take him there.
Ink flopped back to the grass, pressing his heels into the dirt and pushing his hips up. Groaning, long and low and feral. I kept going, slowly, twisting downward and fluttering upward. Never the same thing twice, until I felt him pulse and twitch, heard his breath catch and his voice break.
“Cass…” a broken whisper, my name chanted. “Cass, Cass, Cassie, god, Cassie…”
“Yes, Ink, for you. Just for you. All for you.” Faster, then, feeling him reach the utter edge. “Give me all of you, Ink. Right now. Come for me. Come all over my hands. I want to feel it. I want it. I want you, Ink. I want you. I want you.” I really had no clue what I was saying, or why, just that I knew he needed my voice, needed to hear me. How I knew I couldn’t have said, but I knew.
He shouted, a hoarse, guttural, wordless cry as he came. At the moment of his release, his eyes snapped open and met mine, and I didn’t look away, held his gaze as he came all over his stomach and my hands, spurting again and again as I continued stroking him until he had nothing else to give.
Our eyes locked, a sticky mess all over him and me both, he just stared. Seeming amazed.
I ached, oh how I ached.
I had told him I expected nothing in return, and I meant it. But god, how I hoped. I had never needed an orgasm so badly in all my life.
After a long silent moment, he climbed slowly to his feet, gathered his shorts and my shirt and bra, and extended a hand to me. Tugged me to my feet. Didn’t let go, but walked with me through the woods back toward his home. Naked in the woods, bathed in moonlight and cool air—my nipples stood achingly hard, diamond points, the cool air swirling over them. He moved with silent grace despite his size, leading me to the kitchen door, which was bathed in shadows. Led me inside. Tossed our clothing on the floor.
Used a wad of paper towel to clean himself with while I washed my hands.
Standing in silence, he just stared at me. Thinking.
“What, Ink? Say whatever it is you’re thinking.” I resisted the urge to cover my breasts with my arms, instead standing bold, bare. Wondering what he was thinking. How he felt about what had just happened.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything in return—”
“Ink, you don’t—“
He palmed the small of my back, tugged me up against him, his slack manhood pressed against my belly, residual stickiness tacky against my skin. I didn’t mind that—only wondered if maybe it meant we’d get to take a shower together. He stared down at me.
“I really hope you were tellin’ the truth when you said there wasn’t anything I could want that you wouldn’t give.”
“I was. God’s honest truth. I want it all. More than you can imagine.” My voice quavered, my own need getting the better of me, my legs shaking, knees pressed together, ache low in my belly growing as his hand descended to cup my backside.
“Still scared shitless of wanting too much,” he whispered. “Of just being too much.”
“I’m not scared, Ink.”
“Maybe you should be,” he murmured. “Not sure you understand what you just started.”
My grin was darkly amused, wildly aroused. “Show me what you mean, Ink. I dare you.”
Ink
Her eyes were wild. Alive with need. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so manic with sexual ferocity in my life.
I shouldn’t have been able to feel a thing, not after the way she’d just milked every last drop of seed out of me, especially after having gone once already by myself. But I had her half-naked in my hands, beautiful small pert firm breasts with those hypersensitive nipples pointed slightly upward, as if begging for my mouth. She’d given me a gift of such precious beauty that I doubted I could ever communicate its worth to her—somehow, what she’d just done had shown me that she was for real. That she truly did want me. That she wasn’t afraid. That I could let go, a little bit, at least, and that I wouldn’t hurt her. I wasn’t “healed,” if there even was such a thing. I was still scared of hurting her, and an insidious little voice way down deep was still whispering poisonous thoughts—she’ll turn on you when you least expect it; she doesn’t REALLY want you; she’ll find a way to blame something on you, just wait, you’ll see; she has no idea what she’s asking for, thinking she can handle you; you’re going to hurt her, it’s what you do; she doesn’t really want you, she doesn’t really want you…
Her eyes told me a different story. Her blazing hazel eyes were greener than ever, green with a wildfire of fervent sexual arousal. Those eyes begged me to make her feel good. To show her how much I wanted her. How good she’d made me feel. I wanted to show her. To make her whimper, to see her arch that slender whipcord back with the sensual serpentine S of her spine, to watch her press those lush little tits to the sky and come apart for me. I wanted to devour her until she was a puddle of screams.