He scoops you up in his arms bridal style and strides to the bedroom. All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and savour the trip. He kicks the door open and gets to the bed in a few wide steps. He throws you, though pretty carefully, on it and kneeling on the edge pulls his tee off in a swift movement. You scoot back to the headboard and enjoy the view.
He licks his lips and his greedy scorching eyes are roaming you. Oh, that is simply delicious! You get on your knees too and jerk your shirt off as well. Or should you, say his shirt? You are very glad that you dressed up a bit yesterday. The black lacy bra and thongs went well with the dress, and even better they will go with the current happenstances. The feral smirk on his lips is sending shivers down your spine.
He unbuttons his jeans and getting up for a second he sheds them off. My, you thoughts have gone there before, but even considering his height and broad build that definitely exceeds the expectations. And boxer briefs are definitely the icing on the cake. You smile and beckon him closer with your index finger.
No need to ask twice apparently, he leaps ahead and wrapping his arm around your waist he pulls you down and underneath him. He stretches near you balancing on his elbow, his other arm still under you, and his lips are finally on yours.
All possible deities have mercy on you, your toes curl and goosebumps cover your whole body. Hot, hot, hot! He is enthusiastic, creative, and very, very skillful. His lips are warm and his tongue is soon caressing your upper lip, opening your mouth. You busk in the caresses, sucks and nips, but then your usual fervour flares up and you press your palms into his chest. Oh, give me that, give me, give me!
You dig your nails into his skin and he groans. "You are a kinky little one, aren't you?" He sounds very pleased. You push him harder, and he submits. He rolls on his back and you straddle him. Finally, the glorious solid pectoral muscles, explicit clavicles, the valley of coarse black hair, lusciously going down his sternum from a suprasternal notch, and yes, you know all the anatomical terms for the parts, you do your research. Did you mention the kink?
You lower your head and lick his neck. He drops the head back and his large palms squeeze your buttocks. Finally, you've been trying not to imagine this since you saw his hands when he handed you his phone. He bucks his hips up. Down boy, you haven't had your fill yet.
Nails scratching, lips sucking, teeth nipping, and in a few seconds he is panting under you. You snake one of your hands lower and press it into his immensely impressive erection. He hisses and then your bra clasp springs open. That is quite a skill he is showing there! Exactly how many of these a week does he open? You are too far gone to care.
He catches the back of your head with his palm and pulls your lips to his. God, he tastes amazing! You moan into his mouth. He tears his away and rasps, "Do you want to stay up there or should I lead?" "I don't like to be lead," you quip and slide your hand into his pants.
His pelvis jerks into your palm and his hand flies to the bedside table. He is battering a handle of a drawer and finally grabs it. He pulls and yanks it out from the glides. The drawer is left in his hand and the contents scatter over the floor. He lifts his head and looks at the motley objects littering the floor. Laughing, he throws the poor piece of furniture on the floor and looks at you. "Do you mind finding a condom there?" Is there anything that rattles him?
Squeezing his hips tighter with your legs to hold yourself in place, you bend over and stretch down to rummage through the disarrayed junk. Mentally thanking the yoga instructor that always told you that you would need these inner thigh muscles one day, you comb through mints, pencils, scrap paper, a pair of watch and… a glasses case? Wow, this kink has to be stored for later. A condom is peeking from under a side table, and you have to move from him to reach it. You stretch and bend over the edge of the bed, and then his warm weight is pressed into your legs and you feel his lips on your bum. The tongue draws intricate swirls on your skin. "You are distracting me." The beard tickles your cheek and by now you have learnt to recognise that as the feeling of him smiling into your skin. You've never had a bearded man before.
He bites your buttock, you squeak and kick him slightly. He is chuckling, and you finally reach the square wrapper. You blindly shove your hand towards him. He gets the message and pulls you up on top of him again.
You kiss his chest again but quickly start sliding lower. Maybe some more of the hunky goodness next time, you have somewhere to be now. He lifts his hips and his pants fly across the room behind you. You appraise and thank the generous laws of genetics!
His cock is a work of art. Long, thick, smooth, the colour and the curve exquisite, it is anything a girl can dream of. You close your lips around it and can't control a moan. There something about his skin that drives you completely berserk. Whether it is the fresh grassy flavour, or the heat, but you are losing your mind. You dip your head lower and he growls. The noises you have heard from him so far are so salaciously animalistic that you want to find out what else is there in his repertoire.
You suck harder and he is clutching the sheets. His thick head slips deep into your throat and you tense the muscles of your esophagus. "Fuck!" He cries out and his hips jump up. You choke and have to let him go. You lick your lips and cock your brow, "If you don't control yourself, you are going to strangle me." He wipes his face with his palm and breathes out. "I think I am past any control at this stage."
He suddenly sits up in an impressive fluid motion and picks you up under your arms. He pulls you to lie over him and asks, "Up or down?" "Huh?" "Top or bottom, love?" Choices, choices…
And then you really surprise yourself, "Bottom." You definitely always prefer top. You cherish the control and the dominance. You are also small, and more often than not you feel slightly suffocated. This untamed beast is going to crush and mash you! What are you doing, Wren?
He rolls you underneath him and slides his palms under your shoulder blades. His lips are on your stomach and his talented tongue is drawing some searing twirls on it. To think of it, he might actually be drawing something particular. He pulls your thongs off and they fly in the general direction of the rest of the clothes. After nuzzling your stomach, which you think is adorable, he dips his tongue in your curls. You gasp and raise your pelvis. His hands are on your buttocks and he lifts you even higher. And then he proceeds with the best cunnilingus you have ever received. The technique, the thoroughness, the creativity! You come screaming, your hips high in the air, your back arching, your weight on your elbows. You drop your shoulders on the sheets, and he slowly lowers you.
Your vision does not return right away. Blood is roaring in your ears, and you see merry purple dots in front of you. He didn't even use his hands! It was all done with lips and tongue, and you think you will never, never again be satisfied with the pathetic excuses of oral sex that most men manage.
He wipes his beard and smiles to you. "Another minute, love?" Oh, you smug bastard! You grab his ears and pull him up. He guffaws and places a row of hot little kisses up your stomach and sternum. He tilts his head and sucks on your throat. One of his palms covers your breast and the index finger and the thumb caress the nipple. Then he replaces them with lips, shifts his weight on this arm while the other one is caressing the other breast.
You are writhing, delectable shivers running through your spine, and you are not even a big fan of boob action. Then you realize what is different with him. He is careful. Your pale skin is sensitive, it bruises easily, and men tend to grab. He is applying just the right amount of pressure. The pulps of his fingers are warm and gentle, and even if he bites he is considerate. You arch into him and moan.
You think it is time to up the stakes. You blindly find the condom and grab a handful of his hair. You get momentarily distracted by the majesticness of the wavy, silky strands. That's a hell of work to groom this mane! The hair is definitely taken good care of. You shake off the professional interest and pull at the tresses. He lifts his face and you waggle the condom in front of his nose. You receive an already familiar lopsided grin and he shifts up.
He supports his weight above you and you quickly roll the condom out over his cock. You might be fondling him a wee bit on the way. Judging by a low rumble in his delectable chest, he doesn't mind. You wrap your legs around him and he presses into you. His whole body jerks when his tip touches your folds and then he starts slowly pushing in. You hiss. He freezes. The muscles on his arms are bulging from restrain but he doesn't move.
He catches your lips in a surprisingly tender kiss and thenpresses his forehead into yours. You exhale and he starts moving. Your walls stretch painfully and you gasp. He stops again. "Alright, love?" His voice is raspy with strain. You nod and smile. Under your hands you feel his body trembling. That is a hell of a self-restrain and you feel warm gratitude. You lift your face to him and kiss him greedily. He sheaths into you fully, and you cry out softly. That is a bliss!
He slowly rocks his hips and you whimper from the electrical shock running through your body. You dig your nails into his shoulders and breathe out, "Bloody hell!" He hums as if agreeing with your assessment and thrusts more energetically. You grab his splendid backside and sink your nails into his buttock. "More!" He picks up speed, and from there on, it's all deep incisive thrusts and your loud screams.
Under no circumstances you are going to say that at this moment you feel suffocated. You feel exuberant! You meet him midway, lifting your hips from the sheets, and you feel like you are being worshiped. Each push of his hot heavy body into you is an epitome of carnal pleasure. He stretches you to the limit, and your body is on fire. You bury your hands into his luscious hair and caress his nape. His lips are lavishing kisses on your mouth, neck, jaw, even ears. With a high pitch scream you climax, and he follows you in a dead heat.
Your orgasm is perfect, hot and sweet, flooding your senses, singing in your blood. You close you eyes and ride the wave. He is moaning and breathes into your neck. When some feeling returns into your overheated body, you try to move away from his tickling gasps. You shift and your hips jerk. He grounds his pelvis into you harder. "Please don't." You start giggling. Such civilized manners! He chuckles into your neck.
You feel his lips on your skin, and uncontrollable shudder runs through you. Your inner walls clench, and he groans. He slowly pulls out with a hiss and rolls on his back. He is sprawled on his enormous bed and stares at the ceiling. You turn on your side and look at him. The thick lush lashes flutter, and he closes his eyes. How did you not notice the marvellous nose before? You lift your hand and run the tip of your finger down the gorgeous bridge of his long nose. The corners of his mouth twitch but he stays still.
"Where did you sleep last night?" For the love of you, you don't know what makes you ask it now. He slightly opens one eye and looks at you sideways. "In the studio on the sofa. Though it wasn't easy, I have to say," he smirks, "You were making a compelling case." That does not sound good. He turns his face to you. Now you are blushing, Wren? You just shagged the guy from soup to nuts and now you are feeling shy? "What did I do?" "You stripped, rather gracefully for a drugged person by the way, and offered me, and I quote, a night of unforgettable passion, no strings attached."
You tense. Not that you were imagining a white dress, a three-tier cake and church bells, but isn't it a bit too early to tell you to kick rocks? He is looking at you with a lazy smile on his lips but then notices your stiff posture. He frowns in confusion and says, "I swear I took the sofa. I checked on you later, thus the painting, but I didn't try anything funny." He thinks it is supposed to cheer you up, apparently.
You sit up and pull the sheet over your chest. Suddenly you don't feel like an all-powerful sex goddess from just a few minutes ago, but a cheap slut. You had one-night stands before, no biggie. Why do you feel like crying now? What's wrong with you? OK, Wren, you can do it, you had drama classes at uni.
You smile to him and climb off the bed, in a toga of a sheet. "I just need a minute on a washroom," your tone is even and friendly. Good, you are fine, breath through it, just walk to the bathroom, steady steps, Wren, don't rush it.
You close the door behind you and sink to the floor. What is going on? You are in a full scale panic mode, breathing laboured, pulse throbbing in your throat. Where is this coming from? It is not that hard, you know the drill, you get dressed, he calls you a cab, doesn't take your number, promises to call. Before today the scenarios were pretty much the same. Mediocre to decent sex, slightly awkward aftermath, you pick up your clothes from the floor and go home, since you don't bring them to your place after all, so that you have the freedom to leave any moment. You pretend to have had fun and feel relieved. Or if you have had fun, you still give a fake number if they ask and go on with you life. Easy peasy. What's different this time? The sex was great, that's a given, still not a reason to feel like he pulled your soul out of you and stomped on it repeatedly. You chose to stay, you had fun, now get up from his floor and go home.
You splash some cold water on your face and bite your lip. The dress is crumpled on the floor where you threw it before the shower, and you pick it up. You plaster a friendly smile on your face and step out of the bathroom. He is sitting on the bed, obviously having cleaned up and is playing with your earring. Your hand flies to your ear. "I am going to need that, please," you are all amicability and politeness. You pick up your bra from the floor and stand in front of him. You stretch your hand for the earring and keep your face pleasantly benign. He closes his fist around it and looks at you. He is not smiling.
"I would like to draw you more." You'd rather cut off your legs than ever come back into his flat. "Sure, you should call me sometime, I'm sure I can find some time for it." You feel you will start crying in t minus three minutes. You see your knickers peeking from under an armchair and grab them. Then you turn around to go to the bathroom, but he jumps off the bed and follows you. Are you supposed to get dressed in front of him? You suddenly feel that there is no force in this world that can make you unwrap yourself in front of him from the sheet that you are, frankly speaking, clutching to your chest. "Can I have some privacy, please?" You attempt to sound like it is a light joke but your voice sounds panicked. He scrutinizes your face. For a second you think he is going to refuse, and what are you to do then? But he pushes his body from the wall he is leaning on and goes back into the bedroom. You breath out and hastily get dressed.
"Can I have your phone, please? For the cab," you are starting to feel nauseated. "It's in the studio." He is back on the bed and he is not looking at you. Just like you predicted before you lost any sense and jumped his bones. Predicted and decided that it was not for you. Isn't Wren a smart girl?
You pick up the phone and stare at the photo. Oh hell, a tear falls on the screen, and you realize if he walks into the room now, you are screwed. There will be no stopping for the pethetic sobs and runny nose. You will be humiliated, he will feel awkward. You drop the phone on the counter and dash towards what you think is the entrance door. Your shoes are on the floor and you grab them. You jerk the door but it's locked. You start tugging on a lock but you seem to be doing something wrong. The cursed knob doesn't move. You feel sobs rising and bite you lip.
"What are you doing?" He sounds vexed, and you press your forehead into the door. OK, last chance to save some dignity. Pull yourself together, Wren. Just get out of the flat and you can cry in the first available corner. Cab will do too. You are still pressing your head into the door and blindly put on your shoes. "Can you please open this door?"
"No," his voice is low. "Open the door." "No." "Open the door damn you!" You swirl around and turn your burning face to him, angry tears running down your cheeks. "Not until you explain what the hell is going on," his face is dark, eyebrows drawn together. You didn't think this face can be so grim. He is glowering, his eyes cold, lips pressed together in a hard line. "I just want to go home." You are pitiful, Wren, plain pathetic.
"Are you in a sudden rush? No time to even call a cab?" His voice is venomous, and you start shaking. And right away you get very, very angry. You have nothing to be ashamed of, you don't owe him any explanations. "Open the door." Good, get angry, fight it, Wren. He shakes his head and comes closer. He stops in front of you, and you shrink away. He is only wearing jeans, buttons still open, and you feel cornered. The heat and anger are radiating from him. "No." "Open it!" You are yelling and he slams his hand into the door near your head. "No damn it!" He is bearing his teeth, his snarl terrifying.
And then he steps back and takes a few deep breaths. You are frozen, with your back pressed into the door. "I am sorry, I shouldn't have," he shakes his head seemingly to clear his mind. He looks at you, you are probably blanched. "I am sorry, really. I have temper. Artistic temperament, and shite," he smiles joylessly. "It's OK," you lick your lips. You are scared to ask him to let you out again.
"I just don't understand what's wrong. Everything was great, we seemed to get along, and now you are running," he does seem lost. What are you supposed to do now, apologise for confusing him? "I am sorry too, it's probably PMS, hormones and stuff." Good approach, Wren, men are scared of female physiology, he will probably push your out of the door himself now. "I honestly just want to go home, it's been a long day."
He gives you a long stare and nods. "You still should call a cab. We can have tea while you wait," he is really trying to be civilized. "Sure." He heads towards the second door and you go back and pick up his phone. "Can you give me a hand here?" You follow him through the second door to a spacious kitchen, all gleaming lights and chrome. It looks like another picture from a home renovations magazine. He is standing by a counter his back to you. You cough to let him know you are there but he doesn't turn. "Yes?"
"I don't want you to go," his voice is quiet. "Sorry?" He turns around and you see a set jaw and dark eyes. "It doesn't have to end like this. We can make it work." "Work?" You are so confused that you just parrot what he says. "Do you have someone?" He shakes his head dismissively, "Doesn't matter. I'm sure I can do better." "What?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" he presses on. He is imposing even from another end of the kitchen. "No. I don't have anyone. I wouldn't sleep with you if I did." "Great, less work for me. You should stay," he is calm and collected now, and you suddenly feel dizzy. "Maybe spend a couple days here, get to know me. It'll be worth it." He is absolutely serious! And insane apparently. "What?" "What do you have to lose?" Does he seriously expect an answer to this? He gets increasingly irritated. "Listen, we obviously click. The sex is great, which is rare on its own. But don't tell me you don't feel how different it is. I'm not ready to give it up. We should give it a go."
Right… You head feels empty, you literally have nothing to say. "Oh sod it, say something. I'm baring my soul to you here." That actually stirs you out of your stupour. "You told me that we click and that the sex was great. Hardly bearing your soul in my opinion," you sound peevish. You feel peevish. And ecstatic, but he doesn't need to know about it. "Damn it, what do you want me to say?!" He rubs the back of his neck in aggravation. He is obviously not used to being emotionally compromised. He is flustered and you find it adorable. Adorable, Wren? Are you a fourteen year old with a crush? "We'll be great together, it just makes sense. I'm sure you feel it too, so let's do it." It's like he is buying a car! "Well?"
"You can start with your name," you hold your positions. "Didn't interest you before. Are you staying?" He starts moving closer. "Of course not, you are obviously bonkers. You just offered me to stay in here for a few days and get to know you." You think you might be smiling way too wide. "I stand corrected, it is a great plan." You have to press your palm into his chest to keep some space between your bodies. "And am I supposed to wear your shirts this whole time?" "You won't wear anything," he is murmuring now and two large hands lie on the counter on your sides. "I have a job." "Hm..." he is humming unconcerned and lowers his lips to your neck. You press both palms into his chest. It is purely symbolic, because there is no way in hell you could stop this mass from advancing if he didn't want you to. He halts and peers into your eyes. You are giving him a stern look.
He sighs and straightens. "What do you want to know? It's John, thirty eight, born in April, parents in Manchester, one sister, allergic to shellfish. I paint. Occasional shag, nothing serious for a while. Alright?" He seems to be convinced that the deal is done. "Aren't you going to ask anything about me?" "Not really. I know everything I need."
You place your palm on his quickly approaching lower half of the face. The beard tickles your skin. "Seriously? Like nothing? Are my tits and bum all that interest you?" He predictably drops his eyes in your cleavage. "No, but I already know everything I need." "Really?" He straightens again and looks down at you with laughing eyes. "You are sexy, but not a slut. You are fun but you have principles. You watch a lot of Doctor Who and you are either a hairdresser or work with fabrics." What?! "Your nails," he picks up your hand and rubs his thumb on your knuckles. "Short, and slightly coloured." He kisses the tips of your fingers, and you understand that he won. "I don't watch Doctor Who." "Of course you do," his seals the deal with a kiss. You do.