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skin surprisingly free of tattoos. Both of his hands now clutched my thighs, spreading them a little
wider. His palms felt hot against my gusset, which grew damp from the way his knuckle teased along
my groove.
“Ohh, you’re wet,” he crooned, biting my bottom lip as a finger eased aside the elastic. Inflamed,
he kissed me back into the cupboards, his finger now frantic, freeing more of my moisture.
My hands were now ripping the buttons of his jeans, pulling one, two, three of them open, digging
down the front of his pants.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” I muttered, folding my hand firmly around his erection, pulsing in my hand.
“For me?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it, but it felt so good. He felt so good. I stroked him, making
him harder still.
“Holy fuck,” he moaned, lifting me off the counter, easily carrying me into the living area and
dropping me backwards onto the bed with a bounce. His erection was apparent over his splayed
jeans. My hands had measured correctly; he was definitely blessed, like the cliché of a rock star, and
by the look on his pleased face he knew it. As he yanked his jeans all the way down, I lay there in my
bra and underwear, feeling so sexy, so dirty, so right. I watched him stumble out of his boxer shorts.
“Oh my,” he said, standing next to me on his bed, talking like a British TV detective. “What have
we here? I think we have evidence of a very horny girl in my bed. Let’s see what’s under this bra and
these panties, shall we?”
He slid a hand under my back to undo my bra, removing it and discarding it over his shoulder. It
landed on a guitar in the corner, looking like a still life that might be called Sex with a Musician.
Then I arched as his hand slid down the front of my panties, my hips bucking slightly to keep his
fingers out of reach, to make him work to find me, enjoying the tease. Impatient, he grabbed the
waistband and pulled them all the way down, leaving them roped around an ankle.
“That’s better.”
He moved to the foot of the bed and lifted one of my bare feet to his mouth. That mouth—his
singing mouth, his humming and moaning mouth. His lips tickled my smaller toes, before completely
enveloping my big toe, sending sweet agony snaking up my legs. Then he reached into a nearby end
table and opened the top drawer, taking out a condom and rolling it on.
“Spread your legs, Cassie,” he said.
“Say please,” I teased, stretching my arms over my head and closing my knees. I froze the scene in
my head. Click. A year ago, this would have been unthinkable. Something that only happened to other
women. Yet here I was, a pleasure seeker, a pleasure giver, a pleasure taker.
He slipped his hands between my thighs, slowly opening them, and I lay there splayed and
glistening, turned on by the determined look on his face. Either three months without sex had tightened
me or his size was exceptional, because despite my soaking wetness, his first thrust split me with the
most perfect kind of pain imaginable. My thighs clutched around his lean hips. My hand grabbed his
tense forearm. Oh jeez. I gasped as he thrust again, this time harder.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, sweetly.
“Yes, but it’s good, it’s so good.”
“It is good,” he murmured, savoring the slow, deep thrusts, which began to quicken as he felt me
clench around him, taking the whole of him in, finally.
“Oh yeah, you’re so fucking tight.”
I watched him sink into me, faster and fiercer. Yes. I can come like this! I thought, lifting my knees
higher, feeling him reach the very end of me.