Women Seeking Women #155

She releases his mouth with a soft click of her tongue and watches the strands of spit still tether them. His thumb finds the slick cleft between her folds, sliding once before two fingers push inside. The sound she makes is half gasp, half plea, low in her throat like something broken free. She settles on the arm of the chair, thighs spread. He follows her rhythm now, wrist flexing, knuckles pressing, knuckles, opening her, filling, meeting every tiny snap of her hips. She tips her face back, chin pointed, mouth slack, the lines of her neck pulled tight. Another finger joins the rest, working deeper, the stretch raw and perfect. Her hand stays fisted in his hair, guiding him lower until her cunt is open to his mouth. He tastes her first in one long lick, tongue flat, then soft quick strokes when she swears under her breath. Her thighs tremble. The chair creaks. Inside her nothing else exists except the push of his fingers and the wet drag of his tongue. She comes with a broken sound, hips jerking, cunt clenching around the thickness of his hand until the spasms fade into lazy aftershocks. She exhales through parted lips. Sweat sticks her hair to her temple. She watches the way he licks her clean, deliberate strokes that make her shiver again. He grins like he’s just won something small and filthy. She tugs his hair once, a silent order. He rises, and she pulls him between her knees, reaching down without ceremony. Her fingers close around him, warm and sure, guiding him inside. The head sinks through slick heat, then the rest in one slow push. He groans, low and guttural. She catches it with her mouth, bites at the noise like it belongs to her now. He thrusts with increasing weight, hips snapping forward, chair legs scraping the floor with each hard drive. Her breath catches at every slap of skin. He grits his teeth. Sweat drips down his spine. She wraps one leg tighter around his waist and drags him deeper, deeper still, until the heat builds again between them, tight, relentless. Her nails mark his back. Her cunt pulses around him. He drives once, twice, harder, the final thrust holding, pouring into her with deep pulses. She feels every one. The room smells like sex and salt and the faint sandalwood she’d rubbed onto her wrist hours ago. They stay like that, still breathing, his forehead against her shoulder, his hand stroking her hip absentminded like it forgot they’d just finished.