Secretly Married To My Neighbour {03}

He climbs up my body, his own breathing still uneven. He hovers over me, propped on his elbows, his dark eyes searching my face. I’m still floating, my limbs heavy, my mind pleasantly blank. The hum of the jet feels like a lullaby.

He leans down and kisses me softly, letting me taste myself on his lips. It’s intimate, grounding.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead.

I manage a weak nod. “More than.”

His smile is tender, but there’s a familiar heat still smoldering in his gaze. The tenderness is a brief reprieve; I know him too well to think we’re finished. He is a man who takes his time, who enjoys every stage of unraveling me.

He shifts his weight, his hands moving to my hips. “Turn over,” he says, his voice a quiet command.

The fog of my first release clears a little, replaced by a fresh spark of anticipation. I push myself up, my body still humming, and roll onto my stomach. The bed is cool against my flushed skin. I get onto my hands and knees, feeling exposed, the position leaving me utterly open to him. I look back over my shoulder.

He’s kneeling behind me, watching. His eyes rake over me with a possessiveness that makes my breath catch. He places a large, warm hand on the small of my back, pressing down gently until my spine curves, my back dipping and my hips rising in silent offering. The arch feels natural, submissive. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cabin’s temperature.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, almost to himself. His hands smooth over the curve of my rear, a slow, appreciative caress. “So utterly perfect.”

He leans forward, but he doesn’t enter me. Instead, his mouth finds the sensitive skin at the base of my spine. He kisses a slow, wet trail downward, his teeth grazing lightly. I bury my face in the bedding, a moan muffled by the soft material. Every nerve ending is alive, hyper-aware of his every movement.

His journey is deliberate, agonizingly slow. His lips and tongue explore the backs of my thighs, the crease where leg meets body. He’s teasing, building the tension all over again, making me keenly aware of the empty, aching throb between my legs. I’m still slick from my first climax, from him, and the cool air on my damp skin is a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

“Paul…” His name is a plea, strained and needy.

“Shhh,” he soothes, his breath fanning over me. “I’m taking my time. This one’s mine.”

Finally, his hands spread me wider. He doesn’t use his tongue where I’m desperate for it. Not yet. First, he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to my core from behind. The sensation is different, shocking in its intimacy. I jolt, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat.

He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against me. “Sensitive?”

I can’t answer. I’m trembling, holding the position he put me in by sheer force of will.

Then his tongue finds me.

If the first time was a lightning strike, this is a slow, deliberate fire. He starts with long, languid strokes that cover every inch of me. He’s not just seeking my pleasure; he’s savoring me. Memorizing me. The angle is different, deeper. His tongue delves inside, and I cry out, my arms buckling so my forearms are on the bed, my back still arched high.

“Stay up,” he commands, his voice rough. A hand comes down firmly on my hip, holding me in place.

I obey, forcing my shaking arms to straighten. The effort, the slight strain in my muscles, only heightens the sensations. He works me with a skill that borders on cruel. He’ll bring me to the very edge with a relentless, rhythmic pressure, then pull back to feather light, maddening flicks. He’ll lap at me slowly, then fasten his mouth and suck, hard. He’s playing an instrument, and my body is singing a ragged, desperate song for him alone.

My world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on me and the sound of my own ragged breathing. The jet’s vibration seems to sync with the pounding of my blood. Pleasure is a live wire under my skin, sparking and twisting with every move of his tongue. It builds slower this time, a deep, coiling pressure that originates in my very core and spreads outward, making my toes curl and my fingers clutch at the bedding.

“I can’t…” I sob, the tension coiling impossibly tight. “It’s too much…”

“It’s not enough,” he growls against me. He slides a hand around my hip, his fingers finding the swollen, slick bundle of nerves his tongue has been avoiding. He presses down in a firm, circular motion.

The combination is devastating.

A sharp, broken cry is ripped from my throat as the second orgasm detonates. This one is different—deeper, less of a crash and more of a profound, rolling quake that seems to start in my soul and radiate outward. My entire body convulses, the arch in my back becoming a taut bowstring. White light floods the edges of my vision. I am pure sensation, unraveling completely under the mastery of his mouth and hands.

He gentles his touch but doesn’t stop, coaxing every last shudder, every aftershock from me until I collapse forward, my body spent and trembling. I’m a puddle of sensation, unable to move.

He moves then, his own urgency finally breaking through his control. I feel the blunt, heated pressure of him at my entrance. He doesn’t ask. He knows I’m his. With a low groan that sounds like relief, he pushes into me in one long, slow, claiming stroke.

I’m so sensitive, so thoroughly worked open, that the fullness is almost overwhelming. A ragged moan escapes me. He stills, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust, letting us both savor the feeling.

He braces his hands on the bed on either side of me, his body curving over my back. He drops a kiss on my shoulder blade.

“Two,” he whispers, his voice thick with triumph and desire.

Then he begins to move.