I let go of his erection and caught at his shoulders. Pulled down. “Enough talk. Get down there and put your mouth where your money is.”
He laughed and let me push him to his knees in front of me once again. Instead of diving right in, though, he traced a finger over my seam. I trembled, wondering how he could know I liked to be built up to orgasm, that I responded to light, slow touches better than rough, fast ones. How could he know? He shouldn’t. But he did.
He just slid that one finger down my seam, back up. Leaned in, pressed a slow hot breathing kiss to the keyhole at the top of my sex. His tongue flickered against me, there. Briefly, so lightly it was almost nothing at all. Then away, and his finger brushed down again, this time teasing in, just slightly, delving between the lips up to the first knuckle.
“So soft,” he breathed. “So wet.”
“You make me wet,” I murmured, the words tumbling unbidden from me. “So fucking wet.”
He slid that one finger in, gathering upward and withdrawing slicked in my essence. He licked it, eyes closing on a groan as he stuck his finger into his mouth and slurped it clean.
“Fuck the games,” he growled, eyes wrenching open and fixing on me, suddenly fierce and wild. “If you taste like that, I’ll eat you out until you beg me to stop.”
I laughed breathlessly. “Never gonna happen, but go ahead and try, champ.”
“Challenge accepted,” he muttered. “Better find something to hold on to.”
His tongue slithered against me, and I realized he was indeed done playing around. He’d been teasing me, testing me before. And now he was ready to devour me in earnest.
And holy fuck, did he devour me.
He was hungry for me, mad with it. Skilled, as well. He knew his way around my pleasure as if he’d been given blueprints to my orgasm. He gripped my hips and held me in place, slathering his tongue against me, and within a few swipes had me shaking, had me gasping.
Then, as I began to whimper from the ecstasy of his tongue against my clit, he wrapped a hand around my ass and pulled me against him, and his other hand dove up between my thighs and he pressed a finger into my opening, curled inside me, drew out. Then two fingers, up and in and curling. Withdrawing.
I gasped at the intrusion, and so he did it again.
Three fingers, then, and that was the most I could accept, and those three fingers curled in and pulled away, toward himself, against the upper inner wall of my sex. Stroked me there, slowly, as his mouth worked at my lips and my throbbing, thickening clitoris.
I had my hands in his hair, tangled in his tight curls, pulling him against me, shamelessly urging him on. I didn’t have to beg him to keep going—I knew he wouldn’t stop until I’d found my release.
He chased my orgasm relentlessly, as if it was his only purpose in life.
He got me there in record time, and I rose to the brink, hips flexing against his mouth and riding his stabbing, curling fingers.
“Oh fuck—Titus, god, yes!” I gasped, shrill and shaking.
He just continued his assault, three long thick strong clever fingers cleaving my sex open and massaging within me and slicing in and out in fast rhythm, his tongue circling me, head swiveling to add speed and force.
I came, spasming hard, crying out, hips rocking forward against his mouth, my whole body shaking, back arched and head thrown backward, a scream ripping out of me.
I expected him to stop, then.
To stand up and push me to my knees and take his reward.
I’d have gladly, willingly done so.
He slowed his movements until I relaxed the tense, taut flex of my hips and stood with tremulous knees in front of him, sagging, gasping. His mouth, his lips, his beard were smeared with me, and his grin was self-satisfied. I thought that was it.
But he’d taken my words as a challenge, and clearly Titus Bright didn’t back down from a challenge.
He stared at me, watched me with that cocky grin on his face, and when I’d caught my breath, he began again. Slowly. Just his mouth. And when I began to rise up into nascent climax again, he added a finger, then two, then three…
I lost track of everything, after that.
How long he knelt between my thighs.
How many times he made me come.
Who I was.
Where I was.
All I knew was his mouth and his fingers, his tongue and his lips and his touch, skillfully, masterfully bringing me to climax and over the edge with screaming abandon, keeping me there until I couldn’t breathe to even scream before letting me topple down the other side…only to start over again, each time with less of a chance to recover between. Until I was shaking helplessly, until my cries of orgasm became desperate weeping shattered sobs.
Until the thought of coming yet again nearly ached, nearly hurt.
And, indeed, I did beg him to stop, finally.
“Titus,” I gasped, fingers knotted in his hair. “Stop, fuck, stop, I can’t take anymore. I can’t—I can’t—I can’t breathe. Fuck, Titus, fuck. Stop.” I stared down at him, and my eyes were hazy, blurred—he’d made me come so hard, so many times I was literally crying helplessly. “You win, okay? Jesus, you…you fucking win.”
He backed away—rolled to sit on his feet. I swayed, balance evaporated in the boiling heat of countless wrenching orgasms. He reached up, caught me. “Hold on to me,” he murmured, guiding my hands to his head, his shoulders.
I held on.
I couldn’t breathe, still, couldn’t think, could barely manage to keep my legs under me. I watched with befuddled, mind-numbed confusion, in a drunken stupor, as he reached for his shorts and dug a hand in a pocket, came out with something.
He grabbed my hand and supported me as he stood up. Moved behind me.
I heard foil ripping.
Felt his hand moving, sheathing himself. Part of me knew what he was doing, but the rest of me was just…shattered into incoherence, into stupefied dizzy shaking wonder, numb with ecstasy, drunk on bliss, high on the wild sexual release of an intensity I hadn’t known was even physically possible.
“Eyes open, Laurel,” he commanded, his voice a rough buzzing in my ear. “Watch us.”
My eyes flew open at his words, and I watched in one of the angled mirrors as he bent at the knees. I felt him at my entrance, felt his fingers finding my opening, felt him guide himself within me. Despite our height difference, we lined up perfectly. Somehow. Impossibly. The angles and alignments shouldn’t work in our favor, but they did. He straightened, and filled me, and I was lifted up onto my toes and stretched apart with him and ached with him and had to fight for balance, had to reach back and cling to his neck as he surged upward.
I saw us, in the mirror. Saw his cock slide into me, watched it disappear inside me, watched his hips smash against my ass, flattening it. His hands clawed at my belly and scratched at my diaphragm, and then he was clutching my tits and squeezing, roughly, fiercely, a growl escaping his lips.
“Fuck, Laurel,” he snarled. “So fucking tight. So wet.”
“God, you’re fucking huge,” I gasped. “So fucking big.”
He remained seated fully within me, not moving yet. “You good?”
I couldn’t do anything but stare at us, straight-on mirror reflecting my tanned skin the color of sunlight and cream, my big heavy breasts clutched his hands, my pink nipples peeking between his fingers, my body tilted forward, thighs pressed together to create a tight V, our joining shadowed. The other mirrors showed us joined, showed him buried into me, hips to ass.