Read Online Restraint (Xcite Romance) by Charlotte Stein - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Stein
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hands on my hips that keeps the contact between us. Otherwise I’d be all the way off and probably somewhere down the hall, because dear God.
He doesn’t do it the way other men have done it to me, in the past. He doesn’t just stick out his tongue and kind of … flick it around. Instead he spreads the whole surface area of that wet, slippery thing all over my clit, until I feel like I’m being punched repeatedly with pleasure. I can’t even take the sensation it prompts, and I tell him so.
But he’s not listening to me any more.
‘Seriously, Artie,’ I think I say, because the tongue thing is way too much, it is … but Lord, when he actually sucks my clit into his mouth … ‘Don’t, don’t – I’m gonna come.’
‘Isn’t that the idea?’ he asks, but once he’s done being funny he just goes right back to licking and licking at me, that mouth of his so hot and greedy. Hands tight on my hips – which of course means I can’t even squirm away from that too-intense contact.
Though God knows I try. I think I go to climb up the nearest wall, but when my orgasm finally breaks I’m grateful that he anchors me on the bed. I’m glad of his hands on me, holding me, as the pleasure pulses through my sex – I don’t think I could take it, otherwise.
I can’t take him, being like this. I don’t even know what to say once it’s over, but that’s OK. For the second time this morning, he does the honours.
‘I’m going to fuck you now,’ he says, and I just lie there, boneless, watching him doing something awesome, like taking off all of his clothes. Apparently he’s shy about words and weird around girls he likes, but once all of that’s out of the way he has absolutely no problems getting incredibly naked.
Because it is incredibly. He’s so big and hairy and solid that for a moment I can’t do anything but look. His shoulders are like those yoke things people used to carry milk on. His thighs are longer than the entirety of my legs, and I know this even though I’ve never actually thought about something as weird as thigh length.
Usually I busy myself with the rude parts, at times like this, but he makes it hard. There’s just so much of him to marvel at, to the point where I’m still marvelling long after he’s done with the clothes. In fact, after a second he starts to look a little self-conscious – as though he’s grown a boil somewhere that he didn’t know about. He even glances down at his fabulous body to check where exactly this boil might be, before I manage to make my dry mouth work.
‘Come here,’ I tell him. ‘Come over here.’
Which is pretty lame, I know. But at the moment it’s all I can manage. I’m starting to feel that thrum between my legs again – so soon after that immense orgasm! – and the longer he stands there, the worse it gets.
Thankfully, however, he listens to me. He crawls over the bed to where I’m still sprawled, that thick, now ever so slightly threatening cock bobbing between his legs, like a cudgel. And of course once he does so, all I can think about is how that thing’s going to feel. My last boyfriend was half his size and I sometimes had a little trouble, so God only knows what this is going to be like.
God only knows where he’s going to get a condom that fits, for that matter.
I’ve got some in the bedside drawer due to a few misguided hopes about meeting a hunk in a bar somewhere, but in all of those dreams about said hunk, he was never blessed with a king size cock. Typically he just had a nice, normal one, and we had nice, normal sex on a pretty coverlet, instead of Artie wrestling with a piece of rubber for half an hour before finally, finally squeezing himself into it.
Which sounds awful, I know, but strangely it just makes the whole thing more exciting. It’s like standing at the top of a waterslide, just waiting and waiting for your turn to go down. By the time he’s done I’m breathing so hard it’s entirely possible
He doesn’t do it the way other men have done it to me, in the past. He doesn’t just stick out his tongue and kind of … flick it around. Instead he spreads the whole surface area of that wet, slippery thing all over my clit, until I feel like I’m being punched repeatedly with pleasure. I can’t even take the sensation it prompts, and I tell him so.
But he’s not listening to me any more.
‘Seriously, Artie,’ I think I say, because the tongue thing is way too much, it is … but Lord, when he actually sucks my clit into his mouth … ‘Don’t, don’t – I’m gonna come.’
‘Isn’t that the idea?’ he asks, but once he’s done being funny he just goes right back to licking and licking at me, that mouth of his so hot and greedy. Hands tight on my hips – which of course means I can’t even squirm away from that too-intense contact.
Though God knows I try. I think I go to climb up the nearest wall, but when my orgasm finally breaks I’m grateful that he anchors me on the bed. I’m glad of his hands on me, holding me, as the pleasure pulses through my sex – I don’t think I could take it, otherwise.
I can’t take him, being like this. I don’t even know what to say once it’s over, but that’s OK. For the second time this morning, he does the honours.
‘I’m going to fuck you now,’ he says, and I just lie there, boneless, watching him doing something awesome, like taking off all of his clothes. Apparently he’s shy about words and weird around girls he likes, but once all of that’s out of the way he has absolutely no problems getting incredibly naked.
Because it is incredibly. He’s so big and hairy and solid that for a moment I can’t do anything but look. His shoulders are like those yoke things people used to carry milk on. His thighs are longer than the entirety of my legs, and I know this even though I’ve never actually thought about something as weird as thigh length.
Usually I busy myself with the rude parts, at times like this, but he makes it hard. There’s just so much of him to marvel at, to the point where I’m still marvelling long after he’s done with the clothes. In fact, after a second he starts to look a little self-conscious – as though he’s grown a boil somewhere that he didn’t know about. He even glances down at his fabulous body to check where exactly this boil might be, before I manage to make my dry mouth work.
‘Come here,’ I tell him. ‘Come over here.’
Which is pretty lame, I know. But at the moment it’s all I can manage. I’m starting to feel that thrum between my legs again – so soon after that immense orgasm! – and the longer he stands there, the worse it gets.
Thankfully, however, he listens to me. He crawls over the bed to where I’m still sprawled, that thick, now ever so slightly threatening cock bobbing between his legs, like a cudgel. And of course once he does so, all I can think about is how that thing’s going to feel. My last boyfriend was half his size and I sometimes had a little trouble, so God only knows what this is going to be like.
God only knows where he’s going to get a condom that fits, for that matter.
I’ve got some in the bedside drawer due to a few misguided hopes about meeting a hunk in a bar somewhere, but in all of those dreams about said hunk, he was never blessed with a king size cock. Typically he just had a nice, normal one, and we had nice, normal sex on a pretty coverlet, instead of Artie wrestling with a piece of rubber for half an hour before finally, finally squeezing himself into it.
Which sounds awful, I know, but strangely it just makes the whole thing more exciting. It’s like standing at the top of a waterslide, just waiting and waiting for your turn to go down. By the time he’s done I’m breathing so hard it’s entirely possible
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