Page 35 of Serenity
He made a bitch stutter. A kiss like melted butter. Warm, sweet, savory, slow. He set the tempo. It churned something inside of me. Gentle and studious, skilled and indubious. He set the pace, and I followed along. This kiss felt like a classic love song. A kiss that made my heart shimmy. Made my head dizzy. And he tasted so fucking good.
Emblazoning the pace with passion, I hummed and buzzed with satisfaction. It was a commanding kiss—urgent and dominating. He left no question if his dick performed the same. Pleasantly, leisurely, and messily, he stroked my mouth, making me moan. Making me slide and glide my fingers against his rigid bone.
Sliding a hand to cup my throat, his other squeezed my ass and forced a gasp.
Heavy, it was. His manhood bore weight in my grasp, amplifying my interest in the man who wielded such an instrument. The elevator began its impatient song—beeping, trilling, shrilling at us to get the hell off and on with our business. Duke, smashing the emergency stop button, ceased the one-sided discussion. His hands cupped and squeezed my breasts. The right first and then the left.
“Mmh.”
He shifted us, pushing me backward as he devoured my lips until my heels hit the wall behind me.
Ignoring the lift, he lifted me instead. My skirt was hiked up above my thighs. I freed a host of helpless sighs. One thigh and then another, he grabbed ahold of each, freeing one hundred and seventy pounds from gravity. Hands draped around his neck. My legs wrapped around his frame, absorbing every inch of its stiffness. A masterpiece existed beneath his tank. My eager bones ached to see it. To feel it against me. Skin to bare heated skin.
Firm fingers crept to my center. Fingers endeavoring to stoke my heated embers. They ripped my thong and fondled my wetness, never freeing me from the kiss. Upon contact with my stickiness, he groaned into the shell of my ear.
“Fuck. That pussy wet.”
“Mmh hmm.”
In harmony and hunger, we bled.
Greedily, I rubbed my hips against him, hastening the friction of his attack. His fingers, two fingers, expert fingers, located the g-spot and tapped mercilessly on the famed place.
“I want you to cum on my fingers,” he whispered. “Can you do that for me, Bee?”
A weak “mmh” was all I could manage.
In a come-hither motion, he whirred me, spurred me, slurred my words, stirred me, and observed me. He roused me toward a surplus of ecstasy. In and out, skilled fingers stroked and strummed until my body hummed and buzzed. Until my clit thumped and jumped. A thousand deaths, I died with the pleasure he supplied.
“Good girl.”
Duke removed his hands, leaving me stunned to bliss and empty. Bringing them to his lips, he sucked them clean.
“Duke.”
Tugging a condom from somewhere, he covered his length as it tapped below my ass. A foreigner in my own body, I could hardly identify myself in his presence. The angelic tenor of my voice, the mellowness of my limbs, and the scattering of my thoughts could all be attributed to him.
Threaded in every sigh, every gasp, his name dwelled right before he lifted me and slid his weapon inside. From heated skin to scorching skin, I felt him.
That first stroke—damn.
That first stroke hit like thunder, summoning my rain. The second stroke pulled a language from my lips that I failed to recognize. Feminized, zealous cries sang a tune of my eventual demise. Hands gripped his shoulders as he lifted me easily and repeatedly.
Up and down, my body rose. Forward, too, with Duke. We moved and grooved. Amidst a pool of pleasure and passion was a pussy assassin. He tore into me repeatedly. I watched him work as the lift disappeared from view in favor of a dimly lit penthouse.
Head dipped, Duke observed his handiwork as he raised me up and down. Fluid movements made me moan. Made me creak and groan. His hardness inside of my softness. He took me higher, just like the elevator.
Floor-to-ceiling curtains inside the penthouse were drawn, the air rich with lust and Vicks. Swanky accent chairs, the color of yellow ochre, adorned the living room, along with an equally modern black sofa with pillows that looked like spheres. The contemporary space was all a blur as my body was repeatedly hoisted up and down.
“God!”
“—Ain’t got shit to do with this,” he grunted.
Ceaselessly and repeatedly, I was lifted and gifted the rigidity and fluidity of his stroke. Cannibalistic cries and breathless sighs fled me as he filled me.
Duke fucked me until we made it to his bedroom, where he lowered us to the mattress. Never leaving my well, he maintained a stroke. A thrust sure to make me combust. Growling and suppressing coughs, he slid against my walls. A performance worthy of applause.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you right now,” I managed before he stroked me into a moan.