Saturday, February 9, 2013
I parted my lips so he could taste my tongue...
Did you miss me? I've sure missed you. I'll blog more about the last week of being away in the next day or so, but in the meantime...
Happy Valentine's Day! (almost ;) ) I can't imagine V day without V as in Victoria Blisse. And as usual, she has a big shindig going on to celebrate. Below is my Blisse Kiss Chase entry. A lovely, slightly taboo kiss from my book Wanderlust. For some reason when a person mentions kissing to me, my mind always goes to Johnny Rose. It's possibly wrong to be so hung up on someone who only exists in your head but, well, it is what it is... ;)
by Sommer Marsden
My throat, the part that still remained open, felt tight. I curled my fingers over him again, feeling his cock respond. He looked angry. Begrudging me the power I had over him and his body. Mine was great as his at this moment in time, despite the tableau you might see should you look at us.
He tightened his grip on my neck a little and I smiled. “Go on. Do it,” I said again. “This is the knife edge for you, Johnny. Do you want to run your fingers over it?”
He was in a position to hurt someone again. He might not love me, but he cared about me, that much I knew. This was where he saw what I saw—a good fucking man. A tainted, broken, fractured man who hid from the darkness in his past. But a good man all the same.
I rubbed him with the tip of my fingers and sucked in a thin sip of air. He kept his fingers curled around my neck but leaned in to kiss me.
“Yes,” I said against his lips and he grunted.
I parted my lips so he could taste my tongue. I took each slippery thrust as he kissed me. His hands stayed, pinning me there, while he worked his buckle and his fly one handed. “Push them down,” he said, meaning my pants.
I tried, both hands were free, but my fingers tingled from lack of air and fear. I had just enough air to be safe, but enough was restricted that I could feel the surreal floaty feeling of disconnect. He opened his palm for a moment, pushed with me and my jeans puddle around my ankles. Sweeping my panties down, he knifed his hand up the inside of my thigh, pausing just enough to test me. To see if I was wet. It was a perfunctory, clinical prod and it turned me on. He was too intent to finesse me and I liked that.
The hand was back, the great sweet gusts of air gone and his mouth returned to bear down on mine. “Open your legs, Aurelia.”