Delilah groans. I find her clit with my thumb, stroke it as I crook my fingers inside her against the spot that makes her hips rise off the couch. She squeezes me back, pussy like a vise around my fingers, the sound coming from her like it’s being ripped from her chest.
Dear God, this is what I have wet dreams about.
“You gonna make me come again before you fuck me?” she gasps.
I crook my fingers again, thumb firm on her clit.
“You tell me,” I say. “Fingers or cock, Bird?”
I push my fingers deeper and move them again and whatever answer she might have given me gets lost in a desperate gasp, both her arms over her head as she grabs the arm of the couch, eyes closed.
“Cock,” she finally whispers.
I pull my fingers from her though I keep my thumb on her clit for another moment and she bucks her hips against me as I pull away.
At last, I take my pants off. Delilah sits up, tugs at my boxers, wraps her hand around my shaft the moment it’s freed, strokes me as one leg curls around my hip, drawing me in.
“You still good?” I ask, voice rough as anything.
“Still good,” she says, strokes me again. “You?”
I bite my lip, brace one hand on the couch arm, next to her head.
“Good,” I manage to get out, and then I’m bare at her entrance, slippery and tight and warm and she’s half sitting up with her elbows beneath her and one leg wrapped around my hips, breath coming in gasps, tattoos and breasts moving with every inhale.
I sink into her with one hard, deep stroke, all the way to the hilt. We both make an animal noise, both clench the leather of the couch tighter in fists. Every muscle in my body tenses and Delilah does the same, arching under me, rocking slightly.
I pause, just for a moment, so I can bookmark this, come back to it later. I pause because I know it’s impossible to go slow with Delilah, not when she’s always felt like her pussy fits me like a glove, not when she moans while she takes every inch of me on the first stroke, not when her nails rake down my back and her legs wrap around me and I’m completely, utterly under her spell.
“Jesus, you feel even better than I remember,” I whisper.
I slide my hands up her torso and let her breasts fill my hands, nipples between my fingers and she lifts her leg, drapes her knee over my shoulder and I’m fucking her again. Harder this time, millimeters deeper, and this time she moans louder, braces one arm against the couch, arches into me.
“Hard,” she murmurs. “Please?”
As if I could deny her. As if I could do anything but drive into her again and again, each stroke better than the last as she gasps, whimpers, moans. We fuck hard and fast, tangled together, impossible to tell where I end and she begins.
Delilah comes hard. She come shouting oh fuck yes, one leg still over my shoulder and the other locked around me. She shudders and she shakes and I follow her by milliseconds, the world filled with white light and heat and nothing else as I come inside her.
The comedown is slow. I keep rocking against her long after I’m finished, my head in the crook of her neck, both of us slick with sweat. Her fingers are in my hair again, this time gentler as I lift my head and kiss her, both of us panting for breath.
I kiss her lips, still inside her. I kiss her jaw, her neck. Delilah is intoxicating. Enchanting. Being with her feels like standing in full sunlight: I know how easy it is to get burned, but the way the warmth feels on my skin is worth it.
My lips find the Kraken on one shoulder, red and purple and orange, tentacles intricate and delicate and I find myself following them, powerless to stop.
When my mouth reaches a nipple again, she gasps. I flatten my hand against the raven on her sternum, damp with our sweat, flick my tongue over her nipple again.
“Seth,” she murmurs.
“Hmm?” I ask, nipple between my teeth as I look up at her.
She inhales again, the sound sharp and delicate.
“Nothing,” she says. “I just wanted you to look at me.”
I slide my hand downward, away from the raven. I slide it across the blank softness of her belly, over the hill and valley of her hips, over the velvet of her inner thigh. Finding Delilah’s clit is second nature and she sighs as I slide two fingers around it, one on either side, pinching it gently.
She groans softly, shifts her hips.
“Again?” she says, her voice slightly rough.
“You’re not tired, are you?” I ask.
I’m already on my knees on the floor, lips pressed to one inner thigh.
“Not yet,” she says, her fingers winding through my hair again.
“Good,” I say, and suck her clit into my mouth.
Her whole body jerks. Her hand in my hair tightens and she pulls me against her, hips bucking against my face she makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a grunt.
I stroke my tongue across her, feel the vibration that runs through her. I push her thighs apart, let her grab my hair as roughly as she wants. Delilah fills my senses: the scent of her arousal, mingled with sweat and my own scent. Her taste. The sounds she makes, breathy and gasping. The feel of her thighs on my hands, her fingers in my hair. The sight of her from this angle, nothing but plush curves with her head thrown back.
She comes fast, without saying a word, only noises. Her hips buck against me but I don’t relent. I lick her harder, faster, slide my fingers into her and stroke her from the inside, even wetter than before, her juices and mine mingling, dripping out onto my hand and the couch.
This time she gasps my name just before it slams into her, one quick breath — Seth — and then she’s trembling, both legs shaking, and when she finishes I rest my forehead against the inside of one thigh, my hand on the other.
I’m still drunk, sex-addled, half-exhausted, and I think: what if I didn’t have to give this up?
Chapter Twenty
Delilah
Between my legs, Seth takes a deep breath, his forehead still pressed into my thigh, just above the tattooed lace garter. He’s got one hand on my calf, the other, stickier hand draped over my thigh, half on my hip.
Before I can ask if he’s all right, he pulls back and practically drapes himself on the floor, one arm curled over his head, the other by his side on the smooth hardwood.
“You okay?” I ask, half rolling over, propping myself on one elbow.
He gives me a thumbs up from the floor, looking over at me, blue eyes half-closed. I flop over onto my belly, half off the couch, and reach a hand toward him.
Then I lift my head and actually look around for a moment.
“Wasn’t the couch over there?” I ask, nodding at an area rug that’s at least three feet away.
Seth glances from the rug to the couch, then at me.
“Yeah,” he says, a grin sneaking onto his face. “It also used to have more cushions.”
I look over my shoulder, and he’s right: throw pillows and cushions are liberally scattered at the other end of the couch.
“Oops,” I say, and absolutely don’t mean it.
“You’re an animal,” he tells me, closing his eyes, grin intact.
“I’m not the one on the floor.”
“You pushed me off the couch.”
“I did no such thing.”