by Eden Royce
“Mmmm. Like a perfect café mocha,” I said. “Amazing.”
“I aim to please. Ready for the last one?” He slid his fingers over the small of my back, exposed by the low waistline of my suit skirt. I bit back a moan.
I eyed the final glass. Its pink liquid bubbled and gave off a steady stream of gossamer smoke. “Uh, it looks scary.”
“It isn’t. If you try it, I’ll do something nice for you.”
“Like what?” I asked, already reaching for the glass.
“Whatever you want.”
The drink fizzed down my throat, taking with it a sweet-sharp flavor I didn’t recognize. “Oh, wow. That’s good. What is it?”
“Dragon fruit liqueur. It’s considered an aphrodisiac in some parts of the world.”
“I don’t need an aphrodisiac,” I said. “Do you want to join me at my place?”
“No.” He smiled at my look of shock. “I don’t think you should have to wait for what you want this time.” He traced the hem of my skirt with warm fingertips before he slid them under the fabric. I was shocked at his audacity, but I didn’t move away. Instead, I watched the deliberate progression of his hand.
“You have great legs.”
I didn’t need to be instructed again. “Thank you.”
He smoothed his palm over my thigh and gave it a gentle, firm squeeze. I lifted my eyes to his and found him watching me. This time, I didn’t turn away from their intensity. It made him bolder and he stroked upward, tracing the hem of my panties. “I’ll bet these are red.”
“They’re black.” It was getting harder to keep my voice even. His hands glided over my skin like warm satin and I shuddered.
“Mmm. I’m surprised.”
Tremors took possession of my thighs and refused all my attempts to stop them. “Why? You’re supposed to wear black underwear with a black skirt.”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who does what she’s supposed to.” His eyes captured mine and held them, gauging my reaction as he ran his palm over my sparse curls.
My response gushed out. “Ah… I don’t always.”
He brushed his lips over mine, rewarding me for my answer. I parted my lips to deepen the contact, but his mouth moved, whispered against my skin. “Good. That would have disappointed me.”
A couple walked up to order a drink at the bar. I tensed and tried to straighten up and tug at my skirt. He leaned over me and shielded my lap from any curious gazes. “Don’t move.” His tone was lulling, hypnotic. He pulled the damp panties away from my crotch, careful to avoid my steaming center. “They’re not paying attention.” His fingertips grazed my clit, out from its hood due to his adept ministrations. “I am.”
His fingers moved down to my inner thigh and kneaded the tense muscles. He palmed me through the saturated crotch of my panties. His murmur of approval reached my ears as I stiffened and looked around. “Easy,” he coaxed. No one seemed to notice what seemed to be two lovers engaged in intimate conversation.
I sank into the chair and let him tend to my aching slit. He stroked along the leg of my panties, dipped in to tap along my swollen flesh. His cock leaped against my outer thigh and I moved to stroke it. He pressed against my hand for a moment, then breathed into my ear, “Let’s make this about you.”
“No, no.” I mouthed it, but he understood my need. I wanted to come and he was taking his sweet time. His incredibly sweet time. I grabbed at his wrist as I squirmed. “Let me…”
His smile dawned, smooth as sips of cappuccino foam. “You don’t have to work for it. Let me give it to you.” His lips plucked at the thin gold chain at my neck and passion wove over me like a tapestry, intricate and beautiful, engulfing me in layers of bliss.
“Open for me.” He was intent on my every move, my every sound, even though his own lids were heavy with passion. He found my rhythm and amplified it, until the thrumming fired my blood. My world shrank. It was only him and the melodious hum spread throughout my body.
His pace changed and I thought I’d lost my chance at orgasm. Again. A scathing remark came to the tip of my tongue. It never left my lips. He plunged two fingers deep into me and held them there as my cunt pulsed around them. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
“Sip your drink, baby.” I could barely hold the glass steady, but when it reached my lips I guzzled the remainder of the icy liquid. The moment I finished, he parted his fingers, stretching me until my summery walls leaked honey.
Then his fingers retreated and I mourned the loss of his heated invasion. My hips lifted, tried to follow his fingers as they left my clutching flesh. My nipples, stone hard, chafed against the inside of my bra and I longed to pinch them, tug at them.
My hand clutched at his arm and he returned to tease, like a hummingbird darts around a chosen blossom before plunging between the vibrating petals for nectar. My vision swam and the entire bar wavered as a haze of passion covered my sight like a silken blindfold. He brushed aside my hair and placed his moist lips on the delicate skin beneath. When his thumb rolled over my pearl, I spread my thighs as far as my skirt would allow me and tilted my pelvis upward to receive him as deeply as possible. I relished his masculine grunt of approval.
I held the empty glass to my lips to muffle my whimpers at his skillful movements. “Is this where you need it, right inside your pink?”
Before I could respond, his fingers sank deep, curled and flicked. My body quaked when his thumb made dizzying circles on my puffy clit, faster with each rotation, until his sopping fingers slid wildly over my slick pussy.
“Mercy,” I gasped.
“Fresh out.” He added a third digit and pressed. His mouth on mine absorbed first my whimpers, then my protests as he slipped his hand from me. He dipped into the old-fashioned glass with its melting ice before returning to my scorching cunt. My snug channel stretched to accommodate the probing and I ground my hips down onto his hand.
My orgasm mounted and my hand on the bar began to tremble. He took it in his free one and pressed it against the straining fabric of his jeans. I was about to come and he knew it. He stayed close with murmured words of encouragement and kisses along my neck as I bucked against his firm hand. A few beckoning motions against the spongy flesh of my G-spot and my orgasm broke. It rocked me back on the barstool and he was there, taking the weight of my body against his and capturing my mouth to swallow my screams. His feverish touches carried me through the orgasm, wrung another hip-bucking spasm then another, and finally mewling whimpers of satiety.
He stroked my hair as I came down, my face buried in his crisp shirtfront. My breath came in pants and gasps as I rode out the final convulsions of my climax. He feathered a lingering kiss on my damp forehead.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
He paid our bills and ushered me, on shaky legs, into a taxi. I whispered my address and he gave it to the driver while I closed my eyes, lulled by his steady, even caress on my knee. He told the cabbie to wait while he tucked me into bed, where I slid into a dreamless sleep.
The sun was sitting high on her throne as I drove the long, black ribbon to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to begin my therapeutic vacation. My windows were open and the air conditioning off as I maintained the speed limit down I-74. The wind was enough to move the trickle of perspiration further between my breasts. I opened my mouth and allowed the briny ocean flavor to coat my tongue as I took the turnoff to Surfside Condos.
Sea air had given the buildings the weathered look of most seaside homes. Paint was unnecessary, even shunned, in lieu of the convenience and beauty of bare wood.
Rotund and rosy from exposure to the sun, the front desk receptionist stood and beamed at me as I entered. What was left of his hair was frizzy, and his bulbous nose was peeling despite a heavy smear of zinc oxide. Santa Claus on vacation. He checked me in with the leisure and small talk of someone who has spent his life on the beach. I made a mental note to tell Dr. Lawrence I liked his counterpart. He scratched his potbelly while h
e handed over a set of keys.
“It’s 183, go straight back and veer right by the palmetto trees. You got a really clear view of the water and you’re a good piece from the other units.”
“Thanks, Dr. Stroker.”
St. Nick giggled. “Oh, I’m not Dave. He’ll be back late this afternoon sometime. Said he’d check on you, though. Make sure you’re having a good time.”
I scaled the stairs to the unit on the uppermost floor. The windows were open, allowing the sea air to sweeten each room. I ignored the siren call of the master bedroom’s fluffy pillows and en suite garden tub, and moved into the kitchen where a gift basket beckoned.
Inside was a scented candle, a tube of silky body lotion, and a tin of Belgian chocolates. My teeth sank into a creamy paradise and I reached for the last item. Crisp tissue paper crinkled around my trembling fingers as I read the card tied to the neck of the bottle of Snow Maiden.
Feel like sharing?
- Dave
Thank you!
Thank you for purchasing a Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC 31 Steamy Mocha shot story. Please check our other titles. Visit our website at http://mochamemoirspress.com.
