“Tender?” I ask.
It’s times like this I’m particularly glad I’m a guy. Because manscaping with an electric razor is one thing. Getting hair ripped out in large clumps with hot wax? No thanks. Sounds like a goddamn torture technique, doesn’t it?
Though the results are awesome.
She exhales. “Just a little sensitive.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
I cup her ass and bring her sweet snatch to my mouth. I caress her with my tongue—like an artist stroking a fresh canvas. Slowly at first. Then deeper, with more purpose—more pressure. And I’m overwhelmed by the texture—the sight, the taste, and the scent. It’s sublime sensory overload.
The saints can keep heaven, because this spot between Kate Brooks’s legs is so much f**king better. Paradise on earth.
We’ll stop right here for a second. Don’t want to ruin the vibe—but we should talk about a “very special” topic. A topic that the male youth of today are tragically under-informed about. I like to call it cunning linguistics.
You may know it as going down. Dining at the Y. Carpet munching. Having a box lunch. The point is, pu**y-eating is an acquired skill. All that making-the-alphabet-with-your-tongue crap is for lazy schmucks who couldn’t find a G-spot with a f**king flashlight and a navigation device.
You have to hone your craft—develop your technique. It’s a lot like . . . basketball. Just knowing the right moves isn’t a guarantee you’re gonna score points. Because you have to know whom you’re playing with—the type of moves they’re partial to. Too much attention to a sensitive cl*t kills the momentum. Not enough attention and the chick will be checking her watch thinking, Is he done yet? Body language is crucial. Reading the signals—taking cues.
At the moment, Kate’s pu**y is dripping—wet desire clings to her thighs. And it’s f**king glorious. Women should never be embarrassed about being turned on. Even if you squirt like a high-powered water gun or gush like Old Reliable—be proud. Guys love it.
Because it can’t be faked.
As “Sally” demonstrated in that 1980s Billy Crystal movie, just because a woman acts as if she were coming, it doesn’t mean she really is. For some, every pant, scratch, and squeal may be suspect. Is she really getting off? Or is she just tired of getting nailed? But feeling, seeing, that slick desire tells men that you’re actually into it. That they’re doing it right. And that makes us guys want to do it more.
Now that my good deed is done for the day—back to the bedroom.
Kate’s h*ps start to rotate against my face. My hands help her along. She leans her upper body back against the wall. Her breaths come faster and her face turns upward. Her eyes close. Then the explosion comes. She grabs the back of my head, holding me in place as she clenches and grinds against me. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Fucking gorgeous.
After a minute, her grip loosens, and her eyes open. She looks down at me with a satisfied smile, and I kiss a path up her body as I stand. Her limp arms rise slowly up and around my neck, and just before she presses her mouth to mine, she whispers, “So good.”
I thought so too, but it’s always nice to hear. As she kisses me, my hands find her ass again. Kate’s ass reminds me of a kid’s favorite stuffed animal. Once it’s within my reach, I just can’t seem to let it go.
I drag her up my body and her legs lock around my waist. Now that I’ve gotten Kate off, my plan is to slow things down. Take our time. Because once you have kids—time is never your friend again. Even in the dead of night, there’s always the thought, the nagging f**king possibility, that time will run out. But that’s not the case now.
James—whom I love with everything I am—is my parents’ problem. I plan to make the most of it. By spending the next few hours doing all the fun, naughty—loud—things I wouldn’t risk doing when he’s nearby.
“I owe you a massage,” I whisper to her.
But Kate has other ideas. She reaches down between us and pulls my rock-hard dick out of my swim shorts. She strokes it expertly, until my eyes cross. “You can massage me later. I need you to f**k me right now.”
Christ. I love it when she gets bossy. With one hand, I push my shorts down the rest of the way. Then I line us up and slide slowly inside. “God damn.” Her body swells around me. Takes me in and holds me tight.
It might sound stupid—overly romantic—to say that Kate’s body was made for mine. But that doesn’t make it any less true. My h*ps pull back, and her muscles squeeze harder, not wanting to let me go. I push in deeper till Kate’s ass hits the wall behind her. I pump into her with short, hard strokes, thumping against the wall in a drumming rhythm. We gasp and moan together—cursing and humming—with every thrust.
It’s not gentle. Or quiet. We’re loud enough for the rest of the house to hear us. Hell, we’re loud enough for Indonesia to hear us. Holding her against me, I turn around so my back’s braced against the doorframe of the bathroom. I lift her up and down smoothly. My arms strain from the action, and a sheen of sweat covers our skins.
Then I take a few steps into the bathroom, to the vanity counter. I perch her on top, knocking clinking bottles of perfume and face wash to the floor. I kiss her deeply, and her tongue dances against mine. She pulls back and grips my h*ps with her hands, taking over the pace.
She moans and begs and orders, “Slow.”
I do as she commands, rotating my h*ps in sensuously slow circles. Clashing against her, bringing us closer to that powerful pinnacle with every breath we take.
“Fuck . . . ,” I hiss, because it feels too good not to.
“Drew . . . ,” she answers with a soulful whimper.
Kate’s legs tremble, shake under my steady hands. I move faster, pump against her harder, greedy for the feeling of her tight, hot muscles pulsing and contracting around me. The heels of the black shoes that still encase her feet dig into my ass as she matches the give-and-take of my h*ps with her own.
Then she’s clinging to me—chest to chest—her teeth biting into my shoulder as she screams. “Yes . . . yes . . .”
When you’ve had as many orgasms as I have, they tend to blend together, forming one general happy memory. But every once in a while, one stands out from the rest. It’s a moment I’ll think about later—relive on my next business trip when mast***ation is my only recourse.
This is one of those orgasms.
