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Shaky hands reach between us as she stands up slightly, giving herself just enough room to undo and lower my pants to just above my knee. Then, she tosses my belt aside and grips my length, taking in just how hard I am.
I’m throbbing in her tiny grasp, and when she runs the bulbous tip—rubbing the bead of pre-come across her heated flesh—I rip my shirt off and massage her back.
Touch and knead. Caress and stroke.
“Fuck, beautiful,” I groan out, clenching my teeth as I watch her hips gyrate to a silent beat as her juices slide down my length. It feels like a filthy caress. Like her personal love letter. “That’s it. Back and forth, Sol. No rush.”
“I love having you in my hand.” She pumps me once, twisting her wrist on the upstroke. “So soft and hard; you’re too big for me to close my fist around.”
“And yet that tiny hole between your thighs welcomes me home without complaint.”
“That’s because I’m your home.”
“You are my everything,” I say against the shell of her ear while she moves above me. Solimar Lucas is the definition of sensuality, a decadent gift I treasure above all others. “Fuck, mamita. You’re so wet. So soft.”
“I need you inside, Alejandro. Please.”
“Good girl.” My teeth nip her neck, soothing the sting with the tip of my tongue. “Always voice your needs. Never hide what you want.”
“All I want is you.”
“Show me.” Those two words were all she needed as Sol holds me against her opening and slowly takes me inside. It’s slow. Agonizingly so.
However, it is the sweetest torture to feel her walls grip me—flutter around my girth as we bottom out. Christ, I’m in deep like this. Love the way her legs shake outside of mine and the feel of her delicious ass as she nestles, rotates her hip once. Then again.
Solimar doesn’t talk, but her whimpers say everything. Each slide down is an I love you. Each ragged breath is an I want only you.
And I return the sentiment with a hand firmly around her throat, squeezing a bit but not enough to cut off her air supply. Just enough to show her that I’m still in charge.
“You feel so good, Preciosa,” I hiss out between clenched teeth when she circles her hips, drawing out each entry and exit. The way her walls grip me is just shy of choking, forcing me to grip her hips and control her movements before I throw her on the ground and fuck her like an animal would its mate.
No finesse. Brutally.
Today of all days, I want to savor her. Draw her pleasure one slow thrust at a time and watch her fall apart with my name on her blissful tongue. Valentine’s Day should be a day of romance, and God knows I’m trying to behave.
Well, as best the devil can. I’ll never be a saint.
“Alejandro, let me—”
“No.” Grip tight, I allow her hips to roll at a slower pace just once and hold her against me. Our bodies are sweaty, drops glistening off our skin, and I lick a path from her neck to collarbone. At this, her muscles contract and I bite back another curse. Instead, I send a silent blessing to God. “Just feel me.”
I lift her up and down. No rush. I’m guiding her movements while watching our reflection in the room’s glass. We are the perfect picture of perversion, and more so as her wetness slips from her hole and coats my balls and thighs.
The room is filled with our scent. With the intoxicating symphony of her wetness on each downward stroke and the soft smack of her ass against my legs with her slow bouncing.
I also love the picture of her half torn-off underwear and the sinful bralette still intact.
So beautiful.
“Please, mi amor,” she begs, and it’s such a pretty sound. So delicate and sweet. I reward her with a quick three pumps of my hips and two fingers over her clit. “Ay, Dios!”
That simple touch, the small feather-like trace across her clit has her calling out to the Lord above, and that angers me.
And while I consider myself a religious man, in that instance I’m filled with jealousy.
It sets something off inside of me.
I can’t control it.
