The hand
that he doesn’t have buried in my hair starts roaming my ass as the kiss
becomes more about feeling than technique.
I’m only
interested in the sensation of slick flesh rubbing over slick flesh as this
coffee-tinged man becomes my new favorite flavor. I don’t care about choreographing a
picture-perfect kiss. This one is
undoubtedly ugly, but it feels so damn good to have him sucking on my lips that
I absolutely do not care.
Greedy
fingers start working the buttons on his vest, inspiring him to break the kiss
so that he can watch. I love watching
him watch, so I don’t complain about the loss.
When the
vest is open, then I start all over again with the shirt. Well, not all over. He’s graciously given me a head start by
leaving the first three open. It takes
only the twinkling of Santa’s eye before the rest are parted, and I skim aside
the halves to stroke the solid wall of hairy chest.
I might
have purred, and he chuckles under my touch.
“Looks like you’re the one doing the unwrapping on this Christmas
exchange.”
“If you
only knew how bad I need this, you wouldn’t give me such a hard time,” I
mutter.
“Yeah?” His wrists capture mine, forcing me to look
into his face. “Tell me how bad you need
it.”
Hovering on
the dawn of my Christmas miracle makes me more forthcoming than I should
be.
All the
filters fall away, and I confess, “Nobody’s made me come since you. I can only get off if I masturbate, and it’s
sooo not the goddamn same. I need it before
I develop some weird psychological disorder that inhibits my ability to orgasm
with a man.”
“Oh,
Tiny.” He chuckles the words, but
there’s no amusement flickering in eyes now so dark I wonder if it’s only
shadows that I’m seeing. “You’ll get
it. Remember how you came for me last
time? Until you couldn’t hold your
fucking head up? Remember how sore you
were the next day? That’s what you’ve
got to look forward to on Christmas, baby.”
I can’t
hold back the groan of anticipation as I pepper kisses across his chest,
stopping to lap at a flat nipples until it goes rigid against my tongue.
“Tiny.” I barely register his voice and go after the
second nipple, sucking until firm hands encase my head and angle it so that
we’re looking at one another again.
“Tell me you know what the rules are.”
I was so
excited about the next five, ten, fifty, four hundred and fifty minutes that it
almost doesn’t bother me to breathlessly recite, “You won’t text. You won’t call. You won’t fall in love with me.”
“That’s
right. I won’t. Even if I want to.” His chin dipped
meaningfully. “You okay with that?”
“I’m horny
enough to sign my soul away to Satan Claus.
Yes.”
His laugh
makes me smile. “I might’ve missed you.”
I know
without a damn doubt that I’ve missed him.
Reaching
down to the crotch of his jeans, I find a soft package of goodies and trace it
up to a hard ridge designed for a woman’s pleasure.
“I think
you did. Now, can we knock this first
one out of the way, so I can relax?”
The next
thing I know, I’m flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me and Jon Bon
Jovi looming over me like the sexiest vulture ever. An unapologetic hand is shoving under my
dress, pausing only long enough to pet the section of thigh that’s left bare by
my stockings before pushing my panties aside.
Proficient fingers stroked the seam that was already soaked with
anticipation.
“What if
I’m not ready to fuck you yet?”
“Mmnh…” At least two fingers spear inside without
preamble, making me grunt with surprise at both the suddenness and how frigging
amazing it felt. Jesus, this man knows
his way around a woman. “Who… said
anything about fucking? I asked you to
make me come. Method of delivery is up
to you.”
Another
quick jam buried feisty fingers that much deeper while a bossy thumb starts in
on my clit. I gasp so loud that I almost
miss hearing him say, “Maybe I should eat you.
Huh?”
Talk about
visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.
Imagining his tongue among all the other activity that’s going on below
my waist, I almost squeal from excitement.
Or maybe it’s from the skillful manipulation that’s taking place in the
secret recesses of my body.
“Good. So good,” I breathe when his other hand
pushes into the deep v-neckline of my dress to pop out my breast. There’s a sharp tug on my nipple that has me
exhaling through my nose in an unladylike way before he bends to capture it
between his lips.
“Yes. God, yes.”
His hair is
a lost cause now that my hands have become twitchy. The sensation of those soft strands tickling
the webbing of my fingers was another tactile titillation that was taking me
from ninety-eight point six degrees to 7800 degrees. There isn’t a single part of me that isn’t
singing with tidings of joy.
“Talk to
me, Tiny,” he breathes against my nipple while he’s mastering the ski resort
between my legs and hitting all the slopes hard. “Tell me what’s gonna make you cream, Coffee
Girl.”
That. Right there.
The heat of
his breath, the follow-up suck and bite of my nipple, the in and out, the slip
and slide, the flick, the diddle, the scrape, the hard-on impaling my thigh,
his smell, the taste of coffee on my tongue and the guiding star in the East
all come together and lead me to the Holy Land.
“Oh! Oh, oh, ohgodyessss!”
My inner
muscles go into lockdown, rippling over the exquisite fingers that I’m now
holding hostage. He, however, doesn’t
slow the hard suckle of my nipple and continues to knead my breast and
tantalizingly torment my clit while I twitch, spasm and moan with the best
orgasm in the history of orgasms.
When he can
finally slide his fingers free, my outer lips get a sweet little massage, and
juicy lips pop loose from my chest. His
eyes are dancing with sin and well-earned arrogance when he murmurs, “Find what
you were looking for?”
“I love
you,” I sighed without thinking and then jerk my head up from the couch cushion
to hurriedly clarify. “Not that kind of
love. Like coffee. Because you’re satisfying and… Ah, shit.
Just forget it.”
I’m
hopelessly screwing this up, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about from
the land of Orgasmia. I simply relax my
neck muscles and let the sofa cradle my bouncing head when it lands. At least I got my Christmas miracle before
opening my mouth and inserting an entire boot.
“Tiny.” His voice is right there, and when I open my eyes, so is he – so close I almost
can’t focus enough to see the humor crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I never said you couldn’t fall in love with
me. It was that I won’t fall in love
with you.”
Arrogant asshole.
“Ugh.” I give a half-hearted push at his chest but
censor the not-so-pet-name I want to call him.
After all,
the man hasn’t crossed his own finish line yet.
That means I’m eligible for another Tiny Christmas miracle. No reason to piss off my generous benefactor.
He climbs
to his feet, laughing quietly while extending a hand to help me off the
couch.
“Before we
take this to the bedroom, I gotta ask… where are you picking up your bed
buddies? VirginsRUs? ‘Cause they clearly don’t know how the hell
to have sex.”
I bite back
a grin at the “VirginsRUs” thing, because you know… it’s funny. The man is lava hot, a sexual savant and funny, yet I’m not supposed to fall
in love with him. How in the hell is
that fair?
“Not
everybody has your level of experience,” I play off with a shrug, running one
hand through my hair while smoothing my dress with the other. “Are we moving this to the bedroom?”
The truth is,
I picked the guys up on Tinder since there are no strings attached that
way. Maybe they were virgins, but I
seriously doubt there are that many pure middle-aged men in New York.
Tonight
isn’t the night I choose to contemplate it, either. There are much better things to occupy my
time, and I’m nose to nose with him.
“Yeah.” Not releasing my hand, he tows me along to
the foyer, where my heels click over marble as we navigate the narrow hall I
saw earlier. Glancing back over his
shoulder, Jon casually offers, “Those boots are sexy as fuck, by the way. If you think you can keep from gouging my
kidneys with the heels, I might want you to keep ‘em on.”
“I can
probably manage,” I say with a grin, liking this man a little more than is
wise.
He’s talked
to me more this evening than during the entire night last time. I can’t say that we’ve gotten to know one
another on some deep, personal level, but we know some deeply personal things. That counts for something, right?
Dropping my
hand, he slides out of both the open shirt and vest in a single, swift movement
and tosses them over the back of the desk chair. I presume I should be ditching some of my
clothes as well, but the sight of his rippling back and bare chest are just the
tiniest bit distracting – magnetically distracting.
When he
turns around, I can’t keep from roaming my hands over the downy fuzz that does
nothing to disguise rock hard pecs. “You
feel good.”
Okay, so
I’m talking a little more than last time, too.
Probably more than is smart, but I can’t seem to censor myself.
I press a
kiss to his sternum while my thumbs simultaneous scrape over flat nipples. That gets me a quiet snuff of approval before
he tucks a knuckle under my chin and nudges upward.
“Not as
good as I’m gonna feel,” he murmurs against my lips before slicking his tongue
inside.
I love the
way his wide hand completely encompasses the back of my skull and holds firm so
that I can’t escape the assaulting slant of lips. As if I want to escape. I want nothing more than to be this man’s
Christmas dinner and meet his every thrust with an eager one of my own.
The
desperate little whimpers are mine, I’m pretty sure, and one more thing I can’t
find it in myself to be embarrassed by.
They just seem to make him hold tighter and kiss deeper, and I love the
way he kisses.
It’s with the
desperation an alcoholic who’s been without booze too long, and I’m so damn
willing to be his vice.
“Dress has
to go.”
His rumble
combines with the visual of our kiss shining on a mouth that’s now dark pink
from rubbing against mine and makes me hornier than I was before the first
orgasm. I really want those lips to look
that way for another, more intimate reason, but I’ll give him some time before
I start getting pushy.
Instead of
demanding oral favors, I demurely spin on one “sexy as fuck” heel and pull my
hair aside to request, “Unzip me?”
The zipper
vibrates against my skin before cool air hits it, as expected. What I didn’t expect was the hot breath and
soft nuzzle against the nape of my neck.
Or the sensation of being lightly sucked upon.
“Did you
just give me a hickey?” I ask as he unceremoniously transforms my flattering
dress into a shapeless black heap on the floor.
With him
palming the flesh below my belly button and kneading one breast, the answer is
irrelevant. I’m his Christmas gift. He can play with me any damn way he wants.
“Problem?”
“Not in the
least.” Feeling sassy, I paraphrase that
last thought. “You can play with your
Christmas gift any way you like.”
“The night
isn’t long enough for that.” The hot
revelation against the curve of my shoulder makes me shiver as much as his
teasing stroke under the top edge of my panties. “I wanna play with you in ways I haven’t
played in years.”
Stiff denim
scrapes my backside when he grinds into me, and the nip at the meaty part of my
neck has me inhaling sharply. Still, I can’t
hold back my curiosity.
“Like
what?”
Now his
fingers aren’t teasing anymore. They
dive under the black lace that’s embarrassingly wet where he’s headed, and Jon
rubs easy circles against my clit.
“Fuck your
mouth while you sit on my face. Feel
your thighs quiver against my jaw after you come, knowing they can’t support
you but putting you on my dick and making you ride me anyway. Spanking your ass when you can’t, and then
pounding you from behind. From the
front. From the side. In the bed.
The floor. The shower. Against the goddamn windows, smudging them in
a way that leaves no fucking doubt what happened there. For all of Manhattan to see. You’ll beg me to stop because you can’t take
anymore, but you’ll come again when I don’t.”
By the time
he finishes the growly pornographic fairytale, I’m panting. I want that.
All of that, or as much as I could get.
My breasts
ache from the kneading that was brutal but not enough. My clit throbs from the touch that wasn’t
enough. I need enough.
Displacing
his groping paws, I turn in his arms to breathily inquire, “So where would you
like to start?”
The
gorgeous blue eyes are nowhere to be found.
There’s nothing but dilated black pupils staring back at me, and I’m
sure I can see the fires of a beautiful Hell simmering in their depths. That sliver of blue ringing the black is just
a different set of flames that burn hotter.
“The
window.”
My nipples
go rock hard. I’m going to get fucked in
the middle of Manhattan. Granted, it’s
from the fifty-second floor. There won’t
be many spectators, but I’ll see everything until I see nothing.
“Anything
you say, baby,” I demur quietly, reaching for his belt. “Tonight’s yours.”
“Ours.” The quiet word lifts my attention from the
flapping belt buckle back to his face. “It’s your Christmas too, beautiful
Valentine.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Damn the
man.
Damn him!
Why did he
have to say that? Why? It changes my perception of everything.
Because now
his kiss doesn’t feel deliciously dirty.
It’s just delicious.
The hands
that push my bra cups under my breasts aren’t vulgar. They’re erotic.
Those same
hands can’t be called crude even though they’re rough in shoving panties down
to my knees. They’re just eager.
When my
breasts smash against glass at the force of his grunting possession, it isn’t
two strangers looking for a simple physical release. It’s passion.
Passion
lights the skyline for me as my lover’s fingerprints embed in my hips. As he drives from behind time and again. As he whispers that he’s thought about this
for months. As he tells me how fucking
good I am and whispers meaningless nothings that I take too literally.
My orgasm
this time doesn’t come in a blinding wave of white light but is filled with
color. Like fireworks that illuminate
Central Park just for me. Or maybe it’s
the prettiest display of Christmas lights I’ve ever seen.
I’m no
longer sure if I’ve been given a Christmas miracle or a curse, because the
spectacular display of twinkling and shimmering lights shines brightly enough
to illuminate the truth.
The truth
is what I’ve subconsciously known for months.
There’s no getting over this man.
It’s him or it’s nothing, and after tonight….
I know
which it is after tonight.
His weight
sags against me and I feel the scalding heat of his breath as he kisses my
neck, rocking into me one more time.
“Merry Christmas, baby.”
“Merry
Christmas,” I whisper, leaving a cloud of condensation on the glass and
savoring a moment that will have to get me through a lot of lonely nights. I hold no bitterness. Only a slightly melancholy gratitude. My once-in-a-lifetime experience came with an
encore, and I’m just going to bubble wrap each memory for safe-keeping.
No regrets.
Jon eases
back just far enough to snug both arms around me and tucks his chin on my
shoulder. “You got any plans for New
Year’s?”
My dull
heart thumps back into full animation, doing that Grinch thing where it
stretches to three times its normal size.
“Only if
you’re asking.”
Is it
possible that I’m going to get two encores?
Jon Bon Jovi seldom ever does two encores in a show. When it happens, the crowd knows they’re
getting something special.
If he says
yes, I know I’m getting something special.
“I’m
asking,” came the contented murmur in my ear.
“Meet you back here for New Year’s?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
That
cinches it.
Hallmark,
you can bite my ass. My Christmas
miracle has my boobs squashed tighter than a mammogram plate and on display for
Manhattan, but it’s mine, dammit. And I
like it!
