It happens so quickly.
One moment I’m kissing him, my fingers tangled in that gorgeous hair of his and the sound of his tiny sighs and light moans dizzying my senses.
In the next, I’m bent over my bed with my legs spread, ready to be his toy.
The motion is so fluid that it almost looks rehearsed; pulling away from me and smiling, the hand stroking my hair suddenly tightens, and with his other hand on my low back, I find myself bent over the bed; after my hands are crossed at my low back, he reaches down, inserts his hands between my thighs, and with a gentle shove, opens my legs for him.
I feel positively giddy as I wait to see what he will do with me.
Things have been stressful lately; he is doing more than fucking my brains out—the opportunity to fully absolve myself of responsibility is a gift, and one I intend to show proper gratitude for.
A gasp emerges in a swift gust as I feel his fingers on my clit, then slowly, torturously slowly, moves to my entrance. Despite my efforts, a longing moan escapes my lips; never able to pass up an opportunity to tease me, he moves away, despite my whine of protest.