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Authors: Sabrina York
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grinned at him, and a bud of joy blossomed in his chest. She made him feel so playful, so young and carefree. Undamaged. He hadn’t felt like this in…years.
He suspected, truly suspected, she could save his soul.
With her by his side, he made his way to the sofa and dropped down, but she didn’t sit. She stood there, looking at him with a glow in her eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Or tried to. “Thinking about what?” He thought he knew. He hoped he knew.
And yes. Merciful Mother, she knelt before him and set her palms on his thighs. It was all he could do not to clench every muscle at her touch. He drew in a breath and forced himself to relax. “Cassie.”
“Hush.” She reached for the snap of his jeans and—heaven help him—licked her lips. He groaned as she dragged his zipper down, brushing her knuckles along his aching cock. Then nearly whimpered when she leaned forward and blew a breath on him through the cotton of his briefs.
His head went a little fuzzy. His pulse thrummed—everywhere.
He held still while she peeled his underwear down, exposing his rigid staff.
She glanced up with her head tilted just so, and smiled at him. Warmth infused his chest, and an errant thought flickered through his mind.
Perhaps he was falling in love with her. He probably was. He was pretty sure he was. Then she took him in her hand and removed all doubt. Because she stroked him and murmured how beautiful he was and then, ah, and then, she kissed him.
Just the tip, but it was a full kiss. Her soft lips wrapped around the head of his cock and she suckled him, dabbed with her tongue. Her moan resonated through him like a rumble of thunder.
He clenched his fingers in her hair and threw back his head as she took him deeper. “Ah, Jesus.” He wanted to close his eyes and simply enjoy the feel of her mouth around him, but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t bear to miss a moment.
But when she began a tormenting up-and-down motion, fucking him with her lips, he couldn’t help it. His lashes drifted closed, and he sank into the sensation.
Who knew? Who knew, watching her perform onstage, looking all proper and prim—with her lips pursed and her brow knitted as she focused on the music—she would have this talent too?
And she was talented. Brilliant. Intuitive. A natural. She knew exactly what he wanted, precisely how much pressure to exert, just when to draw on him hard and when to release. She played him the way she played her cello, in a frenzy of passion, a frenetic allegro, followed by a slow, tormenting adagio. Then a leisurely andante. A point. Counterpoint. A deceptive cadence.
Ah. He probably shouldn’t have Googled classical music terms because the comparisons were distracting him from the raw carnal delight she drew across him as though he were the instrument and she the bow.
But then all thoughts of Google and cellos and, well, everything flew from his head.
She took him deep and hummed around him. He was sure he recognized the tune, but didn’t care. The vibrato sent wild spires of delight snaking through him. She eased up, but slowly. Then did it again. And again.
“Jesus,” he growled and tightened his grip in her hair.
She took guidance well and immediately changed her rhythm, increasing her plunges and moving in time to his direction. He felt like the maestro of a magnificent nocturne.
Pressure rose within him, and he wriggled restlessly. Thrust his hips.
She opened her throat and took him in, took over, consumed him, destroyed him. She drew him out on a rack of pleasure so intense, he forgot to breathe. Sucking him, pumping him at the base, finishing her song around him as he reached his crescendo.
Yeah. With a loud, feral howl wrenched from the depths of his being.
The bliss was blinding. Cum exploded from him in jet after seemingly-endless jet. Only when it was over, only when he had absolutely nothing
He suspected, truly suspected, she could save his soul.
With her by his side, he made his way to the sofa and dropped down, but she didn’t sit. She stood there, looking at him with a glow in her eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Or tried to. “Thinking about what?” He thought he knew. He hoped he knew.
And yes. Merciful Mother, she knelt before him and set her palms on his thighs. It was all he could do not to clench every muscle at her touch. He drew in a breath and forced himself to relax. “Cassie.”
“Hush.” She reached for the snap of his jeans and—heaven help him—licked her lips. He groaned as she dragged his zipper down, brushing her knuckles along his aching cock. Then nearly whimpered when she leaned forward and blew a breath on him through the cotton of his briefs.
His head went a little fuzzy. His pulse thrummed—everywhere.
He held still while she peeled his underwear down, exposing his rigid staff.
She glanced up with her head tilted just so, and smiled at him. Warmth infused his chest, and an errant thought flickered through his mind.
Perhaps he was falling in love with her. He probably was. He was pretty sure he was. Then she took him in her hand and removed all doubt. Because she stroked him and murmured how beautiful he was and then, ah, and then, she kissed him.
Just the tip, but it was a full kiss. Her soft lips wrapped around the head of his cock and she suckled him, dabbed with her tongue. Her moan resonated through him like a rumble of thunder.
He clenched his fingers in her hair and threw back his head as she took him deeper. “Ah, Jesus.” He wanted to close his eyes and simply enjoy the feel of her mouth around him, but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t bear to miss a moment.
But when she began a tormenting up-and-down motion, fucking him with her lips, he couldn’t help it. His lashes drifted closed, and he sank into the sensation.
Who knew? Who knew, watching her perform onstage, looking all proper and prim—with her lips pursed and her brow knitted as she focused on the music—she would have this talent too?
And she was talented. Brilliant. Intuitive. A natural. She knew exactly what he wanted, precisely how much pressure to exert, just when to draw on him hard and when to release. She played him the way she played her cello, in a frenzy of passion, a frenetic allegro, followed by a slow, tormenting adagio. Then a leisurely andante. A point. Counterpoint. A deceptive cadence.
Ah. He probably shouldn’t have Googled classical music terms because the comparisons were distracting him from the raw carnal delight she drew across him as though he were the instrument and she the bow.
But then all thoughts of Google and cellos and, well, everything flew from his head.
She took him deep and hummed around him. He was sure he recognized the tune, but didn’t care. The vibrato sent wild spires of delight snaking through him. She eased up, but slowly. Then did it again. And again.
“Jesus,” he growled and tightened his grip in her hair.
She took guidance well and immediately changed her rhythm, increasing her plunges and moving in time to his direction. He felt like the maestro of a magnificent nocturne.
Pressure rose within him, and he wriggled restlessly. Thrust his hips.
She opened her throat and took him in, took over, consumed him, destroyed him. She drew him out on a rack of pleasure so intense, he forgot to breathe. Sucking him, pumping him at the base, finishing her song around him as he reached his crescendo.
Yeah. With a loud, feral howl wrenched from the depths of his being.
The bliss was blinding. Cum exploded from him in jet after seemingly-endless jet. Only when it was over, only when he had absolutely nothing
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