Read Online Curve Ball by Charlotte Stein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Stein
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the time he’s worked away around to the dimples just above my arse, I’m near beside myself. I’m not even ashamed of the sound I’m making.
Or of the things I’m doing to him, in return.
He’s completely naked, now. He’s not even wearing half his T-shirt or most of his shorts. I got the latter off around the time he made those long, slow circles around and around the dip of my belly button with his tongue, and his underpants went the same way. I just ruffled them down with my feet, until I could feel what I wanted to most:
His stiff cock, against the inside of my thigh. And then against the palm of my hand. And then in my mouth, before my brain or his vocal chords can summon a single protest. He jerks a little, like he’s stunned that I’m doing it, and he kind of makes a grunting noise that could be a word, if you squint hard enough.
But mostly he just does what my brain is currently doing:
He gives in to it, utterly. He revels in it, in a way I never thought he’d revel in anything I ever did. His back actually arches off the bed, and when I manage to glance up in between long, greedy licks, I can only make out the curve of his throat. He’s pushing the rest of his general head-area into the pillow, as though it’s all just a little too much.
And he’s right. It is. He tastes like heat, if heat can actually have a flavour, and he’s so thick it’s hard to take him all at once. I have to sort of work up to it, licking and kissing around the swollen head until I think I can do it, and then, just as I’m ready for him, his hips jerk up. His cock fucks into my mouth, too rough and too much, briefly.
Or at least, my head says it should be too much. My body is busy going nuts over the idea that Steven Stark is so excited he just accidentally shoved his big, swollen dick past my lips. And even better – he apologises, once he realises he’s done it. He says sorry!
I don’t know what turns me on more. The fact that he did it, or the fact that he strokes a hand through my hair and expresses regret, afterwards. Plus, his regret is really awesome.
It ends on this:
‘You just feel so fucking good, baby. Seriously, that hot little mouth of yours is getting me real close, embarrassingly fast.’
Which is perhaps the dirtiest, most excellent thing anyone has ever said to me during sex. I’ve never heard a man talk so frankly about getting close, or what might cause him to be close – though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Steven does it. He has a big mouth about everything else.
Why not this?
At least in the bedroom, it’s an utter and unmitigated delight. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Just take me, nice and easy.’ And I think I momentarily lose consciousness. A great swell of arousal destroys most of my lower body, and a good deal of the rest of me. The way he goes about urging me into sucking him simply finishes the job.
He keeps that hand in my hair, and just sort of rubs me into doing it. Then when I let him have a little lick, quick and sharp, he angles his cock with his free hand, to make it easier. He eases himself into my mouth, and, even better, he strokes himself while I do it.
Though I’m not sure if that’s out of necessity, or because it feels so good and looks so sexy I could die of it. I’m not even sure why, really – but it’s there just the same. This heated pulse of pleasure, every time he works his hand over his swollen shaft.
And another one, when I see how he’s looking at me as this goes on. Or more: how he’s looking at himself , as he masturbates and I suck him. After all, that’s kind of what he’s doing. He’s watching my mouth on him through slitted lids, and when he’s not watching that he’s watching his hand and his tensing thighs, and yes, I know I should find this vain or weird.
But somehow it’s not either of those things. It’s utterly hot and kind of like he can’t believe this is going on – which is probably why it’s hot.
Or of the things I’m doing to him, in return.
He’s completely naked, now. He’s not even wearing half his T-shirt or most of his shorts. I got the latter off around the time he made those long, slow circles around and around the dip of my belly button with his tongue, and his underpants went the same way. I just ruffled them down with my feet, until I could feel what I wanted to most:
His stiff cock, against the inside of my thigh. And then against the palm of my hand. And then in my mouth, before my brain or his vocal chords can summon a single protest. He jerks a little, like he’s stunned that I’m doing it, and he kind of makes a grunting noise that could be a word, if you squint hard enough.
But mostly he just does what my brain is currently doing:
He gives in to it, utterly. He revels in it, in a way I never thought he’d revel in anything I ever did. His back actually arches off the bed, and when I manage to glance up in between long, greedy licks, I can only make out the curve of his throat. He’s pushing the rest of his general head-area into the pillow, as though it’s all just a little too much.
And he’s right. It is. He tastes like heat, if heat can actually have a flavour, and he’s so thick it’s hard to take him all at once. I have to sort of work up to it, licking and kissing around the swollen head until I think I can do it, and then, just as I’m ready for him, his hips jerk up. His cock fucks into my mouth, too rough and too much, briefly.
Or at least, my head says it should be too much. My body is busy going nuts over the idea that Steven Stark is so excited he just accidentally shoved his big, swollen dick past my lips. And even better – he apologises, once he realises he’s done it. He says sorry!
I don’t know what turns me on more. The fact that he did it, or the fact that he strokes a hand through my hair and expresses regret, afterwards. Plus, his regret is really awesome.
It ends on this:
‘You just feel so fucking good, baby. Seriously, that hot little mouth of yours is getting me real close, embarrassingly fast.’
Which is perhaps the dirtiest, most excellent thing anyone has ever said to me during sex. I’ve never heard a man talk so frankly about getting close, or what might cause him to be close – though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Steven does it. He has a big mouth about everything else.
Why not this?
At least in the bedroom, it’s an utter and unmitigated delight. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Just take me, nice and easy.’ And I think I momentarily lose consciousness. A great swell of arousal destroys most of my lower body, and a good deal of the rest of me. The way he goes about urging me into sucking him simply finishes the job.
He keeps that hand in my hair, and just sort of rubs me into doing it. Then when I let him have a little lick, quick and sharp, he angles his cock with his free hand, to make it easier. He eases himself into my mouth, and, even better, he strokes himself while I do it.
Though I’m not sure if that’s out of necessity, or because it feels so good and looks so sexy I could die of it. I’m not even sure why, really – but it’s there just the same. This heated pulse of pleasure, every time he works his hand over his swollen shaft.
And another one, when I see how he’s looking at me as this goes on. Or more: how he’s looking at himself , as he masturbates and I suck him. After all, that’s kind of what he’s doing. He’s watching my mouth on him through slitted lids, and when he’s not watching that he’s watching his hand and his tensing thighs, and yes, I know I should find this vain or weird.
But somehow it’s not either of those things. It’s utterly hot and kind of like he can’t believe this is going on – which is probably why it’s hot.
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