Sofia couldn’t stand it, had to bury a hand in his hair while she buried her teeth into the thin skin of the back of her other hand.
Why do you have to be so good at that? she wanted to scream at him. Why do you have to be so beautiful? Why—she wanted to praise him, flay him, worship him, and kick him in the face—do you have to be the one that tempts me most?
His fingers began to move faster as he sucked on her clitoris and it wasn’t Sofia’s fault that out of her mouth poured, “Eso, así, así, más, me gusta, te necesito, adalante, adalante, mi fuego.”
He reared up, grabbed her by her biceps, pulled her up against him.
“What did you call me?” he demanded, and she could see his eyes moving behind the blindfold, feel the desperation in his hold.
Her body trembled on the edge of an explosion. She knew instantly when she’d said it mindlessly. Mi fuego. My fire. Her fire, the loved word she’d named him, the one he’d abused in his song.
He’d have to beat her to hear it again.
His breath chugged in his chest like he was working to get ahold of it. After several moments, his hold on her gentled.
He tilted his head.
“You’re not very good at following rules,” he said. His black hair flopped over his white blindfold and he gave her his lopsided grin. It was strained. His lips gleamed with her.
She was literally vibrating in his hands. “I’m as good as you are,” she said through clenched teeth. She was on the verge of humping him.
“How about this?” he asked, and he wiped his thumb across the gleam of his lips. And then that motherfucking cabrón licked his thumb into his mouth, sucked it clean with a pop. “You give up one of your rules and I’ll give up one of mine. Let me kiss you. Then I’ll let you talk.”
She’d tried to hobble him by hiding his eyes. Instead, she’d only left herself defenseless, focused all her attention on his beautiful mouth, that thin but sensitive upper lip, his plump lower lip she’d once liked to tease plumper with nips and sucks.
She wanted his mouth. She wanted to babble. To help him forget.
It was just this one last time.
“Yes, Aish,” she said because she could now, pulling him to her. “Kiss me. Bésame.”
She was prepared for their kiss to be hard. Hot. Explosive. What she wasn’t prepared for was for Aish to feather his fingers across her mouth like he was saying hello to it. For him to trace her lips slow and sweet. When he finally leaned in, only his breath touched her lips. He inhaled her. And then he gave her the barest, silkiest brush of his warm lips, one finger still fondling the crease like he was checking for confirmation.
Every nerve ended at Sofia’s mouth.
His tongue touched her bottom lip, next to his finger, before it retreated, like the taste was too much. Too good. She could hear him swallow. His pink tongue returned, to stroke again, to flick inside, and she touched her tongue to his. Licked his finger to let him know yes, she wanted this. Yes, this was real.
He touched her jaw then cradled it like she was glass then he kissed her, at last, pressing that unforgettable mouth against hers, giving her warmth and breath and endless sunny sea. She sobbed helplessly into his mouth and he soothed her with his tongue, pressed inside and pleasured what had been empty.
He gathered her naked body up in his arms and kissed her for the first time in ten years, plunged his tongue inside and gave and tasted and took. The nineteen-year-old girl with her oath flailed inside her, just for a second, before pure pleasure burned her up. Tomorrow. She would think about it tomorrow.
Tonight, Aish Salinger was kissing her.
Pleasure quickly emolliated his restraint as he gripped her ass and stood, still kissing her, and then sat with her straddling him. She pressed naked to his hard, cashmere-covered torso. He sucked on her tongue before he commanded, “Get my cock out,” against her lips, and she responded as eagerly as if she’d demanded it, eyes closed now and as blind as him as she undid his button and zipper and got him out—long, hard, hot cock she stroked up against his sweater—and she pressed up against him.
He grabbed her by the bend of her knees and moved his hips until the length of his cock nestled between her juicy pussy lips. Even though he wouldn’t go inside, there was relief in the heat he pressed against her.
She began to roll her hips, grinding her clit up and down all those thick, hard inches.
“Yeah,” Aish moaned, between kisses and bites. “Yeah, slick me up with your pretty pussy, baby. Sofia. Fuck...fuck.” He cursed and she felt him shudder. “So soft and good. So warm. Ride it, baby. So good at stroking that shaft.”
And Sofia was moaning right back. “There, allá, allá, Aish, just like that, no te detengas, don’t stop.” And groaning. “¿Por qué, Aish? ¿Por qué? Why is it so good? So...perfect.”
She’d grabbed his hair to lock together their mouths and he’d grabbed her back to lock together their bodies, and when he began to groan against her lips—“Fuck fuck, I’m going to...”—she held on tight and rolled her hips faster and he chanted his orgasm into her mouth. “Fuck...ahhh... Sofia... Sofia... Sofia—” as his come splashed over her belly.
The feel of him, desperate and wet and filthy and so familiar, flung her over the edge as well, made her jolt and spasm and cry out as she got him wet, too.
When he
