Page 23 of Naked Coffee Guy
“Demonstrate.” The word wavers off my lips as I try to make sense of the rules my body is begging me to obey.
“Can I…” His words fall away as he lifts his hand. “Can I touch your cheek?”
His hand hovers over my skin, and I can feel the heat from his body, making me tingle. I nod, then draw in a breath as his finger lights on my cheek, brushing my hair away from my face.
“Can I touch your mouth?”
I nod and he traces the outline of my lips with the soft half-moon of his fingernail. I part my lips, and his finger finds the tip of my tongue. I hold his gaze, falling into the ocean in his eyes as I draw his finger into my mouth. It’s his turn to inhale, and when he regains his finger, he traces a wet line down my chin toward my neck.
“Can I move my hand lower?”
I nod again, closing my eyes as his finger leaves a tingling trail in its wake. He traces my jaw, his hand lightly circling my neck in a way that makes me want to beg for more.
Beg? I don’t beg. And yet, here I am, impatient for his next question.
“Can I undress you?”
I keep my eyes closed, my hands gripping the blanket under me as I whisper, “Yes.” I squirm where I’m sitting as he moves to kneel in front of me, sliding my jacket down one arm, then the other, the fabric trailing across my skin. Then he slides off my shoes and socks, pausing to caress the arch before pressing his thumbs into the balls of my foot. I’ve worn heels for so long, they hardly affect me, and yet his hands massaging my feet make me never want to wear shoes again. He finds aches I never knew existed, kneading them between his expert fingers until I’m moaning.
And I’m still wearing all my clothes.
He makes quick work of that situation, however, his eyes asking the questions now before he removes each article of clothing. A breathless yes to each as my answer. My shirt? Yes, and he takes his time with each button before exposing my lacy black bra underneath. My skirt? Yes, and he has me stand before him as he unzips it and lets it fall to the ground. I remain in my lingerie, full of lace and barely there, while his eyes skim over my body.
“Jesus, Maren,” he breathes and falls again to his knees.
As if he’s the one submitting. As if I’m in control. But I’m starting to understand the rules to this game, and I don’t move as his hands find my hips. I long to see him undressed, to see the hardened body that exists under his white shirt and black slacks, to run my hands along the tattoo I saw on this morning’s coffee stroll that’s now hidden under his businessman attire.
I let him take control instead. My stillness is my permission as he slides my panties down my hips, his hands gripping the lacy material until his knuckles turn white. As if it’s taking all his restraint to not rip me apart. And fuck if I don’t want him to rip me apart.
He stops, studying my sex with enough intensity that, I swear, I’ll burst into flames. My core aches, especially when he takes a finger and traces it with a soft outline. I release a moan, my pleas on the tip of my tongue.
“Can I…”
“Yes, please. Don’t stop,” I beg.
With a growl, he has me on my back and my legs spread. He dips his face between my thighs, lapping the wetness I can feel puddling underneath me. I anchor myself by clutching the blankets as I throw my head back, crying out as he feasts.
“Fuck, Mac. Please.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for. What he’s doing is blowing my mind. But I want more. The orgasm builds, and I don’t hold back as it shudders through me. Gripping his hair, I hold him in place as he sucks on my clit, as he slips a finger inside me, as he draws out every drop, leaving me spent on the bed.
Mac rises from his knees, wiping his glistening grin with the back of his hand. The finger that was inside me is now in his mouth, and I groan again, sure that I could come just from watching him enjoy my taste.
He crawls over my body, his tongue bathing me in the process as he licks the salt from my skin. I can feel his mouth even after it’s left my body, and I arch my back to receive more of him. He takes the moment to unclasp my bra, leaving me completely naked while he remains clothed. His mouth finds my nipple and draws lazy circles around it before grazing his teeth over the nerve-filled peak. The contrast of pleasure and pain sends ripples through my body, especially when his fingers slip inside me. He alternates pumping his hand with the delicious pressure of his mouth clamped on my breast, and it takes no time to get me writhing again.
“Mac,” I moan, needing more. More. More.
“Ask me,” he commands, his mouth on mine, my taste all over him. I am lightheaded and unable to form a sentence, let alone two words. But somehow, I manage.
“Will you fuck me?”
“Yes.”
His clothes are off faster than I can recover, his cock sheathed with a condom as he crawls back over me. He stops and neither of us move, our gaze locked in on each other, our chests rising with each heavy breath. Then he plunges inside me. I gasp, locking my legs around him as he moves with purpose, a mission. Each thrust is made with precision and calculation, tearing me apart from the inside out as I let him have control.
I submit.
He slows, and when I open my eyes, I see he’s watching me. His beard brushes over my breasts, sending electric shocks over each peaking nipple. I snake my hand over the smooth valley in the center of his chest until my fingers find the dark blonde curls on his chin. Tugging, I pull his mouth to mine, and he answers me with a sensual kiss, his tongue seeking instead of demanding. Exploring instead of forging ahead. It becomes a dance—our mouths tangled, our hands memorizing the nuances of the other’s body. I run my hands through the wavy hair on his head, loosened now from the ponytail it was in. His locks fall around me, our hips moving in time, and he grips my thigh as he drives into me deeper.
“Mac,” I breathe, as he kisses my throat, “I want to feel you come.”