A pitiful, frustrated sound leaves my lips as I think of you.
My bed feels so empty. Or more accurately, my body does. You filled me so perfectly a few days ago that just the memories are enough to flush my body with want. Three times you took me, only exhaustion and the late hour keeping it from being four.
You begging for a hug before I put my coat on turned into a kiss, which turned into you hiking my dress up, your hands seeking the bare skin of my ass to palm while your tongue slid over mine. My back hitting the counter thankfully broke the inevitable path back to the bedroom. You had already stopped me once.
It’s hard to breathe, thinking of how you came up behind me in the doorway to the bedroom after the second time, pulling me against you and kissing my neck on that perfect spot. The one that made me melt against you and moan. Then your arms were around me, palming my breasts, still sensitive from the worship you had gifted them. It was enough. I was on my hands and knees again a moment later, begging for more, the sensible thought of leaving forgotten.
As though I hadn’t just rode your cock hard and thoroughly. As though my ankles weren’t just on your shoulders while you kissed a path down my leg, fucking me in a steady, intoxicating rhythm. No, it didn’t make sense how hot we burned for each other when we had only met that night. Each movement was kindling on the fire we found ourselves caught in.
Oh how you teased me when your hand first slid down my body, down to my waist, my dress pushed up to my hips from the feverish grinding against your jeans I was doing. Down low enough to feel I hadn’t worn panties. And that I was dripping wet for you already. That first finger you worked inside me while telling me how you would use me broke down any resistance I had. More. All I wanted was more.
I need more of YOU and nothing and no one will satisfy me until I get it.
Lovely.