I let loose, lifting my arms behind my head, closing my eyes, and circling my hips. When I bounce, my breasts sway and the bed frame creaks. When I bear down and rock, my clit catches fire.
I could come like this. A bona-fide orgasm. With a cock inside me. Mr. Marceaux’s cock. Hard to ignore the significance of that.
“Ah, fuck.” The headboard groans in his grip. “Look at you.”
I open my eyes and collide with his, a smile pulling at my cheeks. “I’m fucking my teacher.”
“Jesus Christ, Ivory.” His biceps flex above his head, his thighs hardening beneath me. “Give me your mouth.”
I slide up his chest and thrust my hips, delighting in the feeling of the new angle. When I reach his lips, his tongue seeks mine, twirling and tasting.
He snaps his teeth at me, his muscles bunching and twitching. “Your sloppy cunt is dripping all over me.”
His filthy mouth strengthens the brewing tide inside me. I sweep my hands over his biceps and cup his face, the scratch of his stubble scraping my palms. He deepens the kiss, the strong stretch of his jaw as erotic as the sinful way he glides his tongue.
I miss his hands on me, though, and the bite of his belt, his painful pleasure. I don’t like his silence, either. I ache for his growly orders commanding my every move. But he seems incapable of talking all of a sudden. With his body so rigid and hard, I suspect it’s taking a heavy dose of concentration to not move his hips or let go of the rungs.
No more torturing.
With my hands on his face, I kiss him fiercely, passionately, while working my pussy up and down his length, searching for the spot. When I find it, all of my nerves, cells, and thoughts rush to my womb, gathering, pressurizing, and exploding through my body in a pounding series of percussions.
My mouth opens in a soundless scream, my gaze locked on his eyes. His lips part with me, his pupils dilate, and his hands fly to the back of my head. Then he’s kissing me mercilessly, hammering his hips, and spiraling me through another orgasm.
He rolls us, hands on my face, his mouth and breaths consuming mine. Our tongues battle, licking and lashing as his weight crushes my chest and his cock fills me up. Over and over, he slams his hips with wicked-hard thrusts. I reach down, put my hands on the hard muscle of his ass for the first time, and hold on.
My God, it’s a perfect ass. He’s perfect everywhere. The cinnamon on his tongue. The dark bass notes in his voice. The musical talent in his hands. The sight of him in jeans and t-shirts, ties and waistcoats, and nothing at all. I’ll never get enough.
His plunging pace jumps and jerks, falling into an abrupt staccato. He tears his mouth away, his hand dropping to the mattress to support the bow of his back as he roars through his orgasm. His eyes stay with me through every gasping shout, telling me I’m the reason for his pleasure, the heart of it.
Lowering his head to my shoulder, he seems to be winding down, trying to steady his heaving breaths. But the press of his teeth against my skin holds me on a heightened edge of arousal.
A moment later, he pins my arms above my head, hips rocking, cock throbbing inside me. “Remember your word.”
My eyes widen. “We’re not done?”
He makes a tsking sound, closes a strong hand around my breast, and bites my nipple.
Then he fucks me.
For hours.
His rhythms span between gentle and wild, his tempo quickly changing with countless alternating positions. He arranges me on hands and knees and smacks my ass while he thrusts from behind. He tosses me on my back, collars my throat with his fingers, and fucks me with my thighs pinched together between his. The choreography gets a little foggy after that as my body surrenders to the floaty, perverted world of Emeric Marceaux.
Much of the evening slides past my heavy-lidded eyes in a blanket of sweat-slick skin, tender caresses, and passionate kisses. But as this is Emeric, and his way is infused with domination, it requires an emotional and mental subtlety that goes far beyond the technical act of sex. He tells me when, where, and how hard, and I roll with it, yearn for it, my need to satisfy him outweighing all else.
In turn, he pleasures me. Right into a coma.
“Ivory?” He bites my thigh.
I can’t even move. Why do I need to? He’ll just move me himself.
Having just come from the shower, where he banged me against the tiled wall, I lie face down on the bed. Naked, flushed, sated, I try to talk myself into lifting my hand to remove the dripping hair from my face. I’ll do it in a minute.