by L. A. Rose
“Adrian,” I manage. “Take off your fucking clothes.”
His suit received the same treatment as my dress. I smile up at him.
“Good. Now I don’t need to feel guilty about ruining your fancy clothes.”
And I lob a handful of chocolate at his chest.
It trickles downward, and he pulls off his boxers. And I behold it.
The stuff of legends.
It’s huge, but not so large that I’m intimidated. Only excited. I never expected something like a cock to be beautiful, or even sexy, but it’s just as strong and sculpted and perfectly shaped as the rest of him. Curved just so at the base. The sight of it, and the knowledge that I’m the reason it’s hard, fills me with this wild need that rinses me of any inhibitions. I launch off the tablecloth and we meet in an almost violent kiss.
“The sight of you naked and chocolate-covered is going to be my best friend for every lonely night for the rest of my life,” I choke out.
“If I have it my way, you won’t have any more lonely nights.”
I kiss my way down his muscular, chocolaty chest, running my tongue over his belly button and the ridges of his abs. He tilts his head back and groans as I go even later. “You don’t have to do that, Cleo.”
“I want to,” I insist. It’s true. I want to explore him with my hands, my mouth, my everything. I feel like a kid with the world’s best new toy.
I lick up his shaft eagerly, the chocolate mingling with the sweet taste of his skin. His surprisingly hard, smooth, and delicious skin. I trace each curve, memorizing him, not really believing that I’ll be able to have him night after night after night. I need to store this up.
I slide him tentatively into my mouth, and he groans. The sound, the knowledge that I’m the reason for it, makes me crazy.
I begin pumping, taking him in my hand and sucking him off in time. I’ve Googled blowjobs enough for book research that I have at least some idea what I’m doing. His hips buck forward unconsciously and I take him as deep as I comfortably can into my throat.
“Cleo,” he grits out. “You’re a miracle.”
I’d give a retort, but I’m not sure I can squeeze out any words around his cock.
“Come here,” he says, and reaches down for me. “I want us to come at the same time.”
He scoops me up and kisses me again, before replacing me on the table and spreading my thighs wide.
“Careful,” I gasp as he runs his hand up my thigh. “I might come if you so much as breathe down there.”
“Oh, if there’s anything you’ve learned about me by now, it should be that you won’t come a second before I want you to. I’m in control of that. Don’t you worry.”
And then, to prove his point, he breathes down there. His hot breath sears into me and a resurgence of warmth hits my abdomen like a tank. I moan, and I’m quivering on the edge, but I don’t come.
Have you ever stood on the edge of a literal cliff? Looked down at the miles and miles of air between you and the ground, knowing that death is half an inch away? Imagine that rush, but in sexual terms.
He keeps me on the edge with my hands held behind my back, pushed out, nearly dangling.
His tongue moves around the edge of my slit as his fingers pump into me, fast and then slow, fast and then slow. He licks the grooves around my clit, drawing endless circles, building fierce waves of pleasure in the low, deep part of my stomach.
“A-Adrian…” My fingers shake. “I think I’m coming.”
He chuckles. “No, you’re not. Not yet.”
And I’m not. It’s just the most fantastic buildup I’ve ever had. This is almost better than an orgasm—a throbbing, searing pleasure that stayed with me for long seconds and then long minutes as he devours my pussy, always staying just away from my most sensitive spots.
I writhe on the table, I thrash, I moan, and finally I scream, the agonizing pleasure pouring out of me.
Again he holds a finger to my lips.
“Not yet. I’m about to show you something that’s really worth screaming for.”
But first he gives me more long minutes of melting, bubbling almost-orgasm, pumping into me, letting me feel the warm vibrations of his breath and voice, tongue massaging the tip of my clit, occasionally pausing to give me long strokes down my slit and up my thighs. All the while, his brilliant green eyes bore into mine.
Finally, he lifts his head. My body is on fire, and the sudden absence of sensation turned what had been a sweet current of pleasure to a tsunami of desperation and need.
“You love me,” he says wickedly.
All I can do is stammer. It’s like I was drowning, almost passed out, but now that I’ve got a tiny breath of air I’ve remembered how dire my predicament is.
He places two hands on my hips, leaning forward. “Admit that you love me.”
“Fuck you,” I spit out, insane.
“Believe me, you’re about to.”
I half sob, half moan.
“Admit that—” he says, and then stops, looking at me, and I see my own need mirrored in him. “You know what? Screw it.”
And he climbs on top of me, ripping open a condom.
The feeling of him entering me is—
I suddenly understand why everyone makes such a big deal about sex.
He fills me, every centimeter of me, entering slowly. When he reaches a certain point, the pain is sudden and my body tenses. He stops immediately until the pain fades and the pleasure returns, bit by bit.
“Keep going,” I beg.
He does, his eyes still locked on mine, evaluating my every response as he gently moves forward until he’s fully buried in me. It’s the strangest and most amazing sensation. Like we’ve become one person.
I always thought the main motion of sex was in-and-out, but Adrian teaches me differently.
First he rotates his hips in small circles, rebuilding that delicious tower of pleasure that had been momentarily dismantled by the pain. It’s almost as if he’s searching for something. I groan as the tip of him settles into a very sensitive spot.
“Adrian. That feels amazing.”
“Damn right it should,” he says arrogantly.
He returns to his rotation, but now he times it with a slow movement inward, than outward. He makes a low, sexy sound in the back of his throat. “You’re tight as fuck.”
“Do you like that?” I reach for his stomach, caressing his abs.
“Do I like that?” He laughs. “Let me show you how much I like that.”
He leans forward and moves his hips up, so that he tilts into that sensitive spot again. At the same time, he reaches down and flicks my clit. I spasm.
“God, Adrian.” I find his other hand and hold it. “I’ve been waiting for this…”
He kisses my neck and then my lips as his pace gradually increases. I’m soaking wet, and as my muscles relax, he’s able to move faster. He angles himself so he hits that sensitive spot only on every fourth stroke. Every time he touches it, I inhale sharply, fireworks going off in my stomach, about to come, but he pulls back just as fast.
Eventually I growl and grind myself clumsily against him. He pushes my hair back off my forehead. “Impatient, are we?”
“Would you call someone who’s been starving to death for weeks ‘impatient’?”
“You don’t need sex to live,” he points out, giving my left nipple a light pinch.
“Wrong,” I say bluntly.
He considers, then nods. “Fair enough.” He smiles at me. “I did promise to show you that this would be worth waiting for, didn’t I?”
He’s already proved that, but I don’t tell him. “You did. It would be terrible to break a promise.”
“Then I won’t.”
A wild hunger fills his eyes and he plunges into me hard, hitting that sweet, sweet spot. I shriek as white spots flash in front of my eyes. But he doesn’t give me time to catch my breath. He impales me again, so hard that the table lifts off the ground and slams
back down again in a mini earthquake.
But I’m caught up in an earthquake of my own.
“Fuck me, Adrian, keep fucking me, don’t you dare stop,” I pant.
And for once, he obeys.
He slides out almost fully and then slams into me again, as his fingers pull and tease at my clit and his mouth finds my nipples, biting and licking…
“Adrian!”
He fucks me hard, again.
And again.
And again.
I’m screaming now, either his name or unintelligible sound, I’m not even sure—it’s hard to hear beyond the ringing in my ears. He’s stimulating every sensitive nerve ending at once, and I’m so turned on and so built up that I can take it, it’s not too much, it’s putting the peak on a base that has been solidly built. And I’m going off like a bomb. Explosions ricochet in my stomach, my thighs, hot thick honey and fire mixed together. I didn’t know my body could do this. I didn’t know this was possible.
He leans forward and whispers filthy things into my ear as the orgasm shakes me, makes me writhe and howl. He times his thrusts somehow so that the unimaginable pleasure lasts and lasts.
It’s standing at the front of a speedboat with your arms held out.
It’s the greatest high of the purest drug.
It washes me clean, inside and out.
As I slowly settle back to the earth, I realize there are tears running down my face. How embarrassing. Adrian stills within me, every inch of me full and throbbing, grateful for the momentary respite.
“I didn’t know you were religious,” he says, a bead of sweat trickling down his chiseled chest.
“What?” I whisper.
“Jesus Christ Almighty mother of God,” he imitates.
I can’t even blush. I’m soaked with sweat and my body is still ringing. “Well, that was a religious experience.” Then something hits me. “You didn’t come. You said you wanted us to come together.”
“And we will,” he says. “My rule is not to come until a girl has had at least four orgasms.”
My eyes bug out of my head. Then I realize he’s joking. He must be. My body can’t stand that kind of pleasure again. Right?
But he doesn’t give me time to worry about it.
He picks me up, still in me, and kisses me hard. My legs wrap around his waist. He kicks the table to the side, so hard that it flips over, the fountain shattering and pouring chocolate all over the floor. I’d mourn if I wasn’t hungrily kissing Adrian back.
He slams me into the wall, still holding me up, and bites my neck savagely as he impales me once, twice, three times, four times—! The second orgasm comes in seconds, gripping me until I forget where I am and my eyes close and even my fingertips throb. Waves of pleasure melt through me, a tide hitting again and again. His cock is swollen inside me and I clench around it.
“Feeling you come on my cock is so damn sexy,” he breathes.
“Coming on your cock is even better.”
He laughs, and then looks straight into my eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“Utterly.”
He sets me on the ground again and spins me so that I’m facing the wall. The sensation of him entering me from behind makes me scream again—I hadn’t thought there were any parts of me yet to be touched, but apparently there were. He plows into that sweet spot on every stroke, deep and long, his arms around my waist and his mouth by my ear.
The hot pleasure bursts through me again, but this time he doesn’t stop, and the fourth orgasm comes almost immediately on the tail of the third, until I’m doubled almost in half with it, my mouth open but no noise escaping. I’m soaring high, up on a cloud, when I hear his voice.
“Fuck, Cleo, you’re so fucking perfect…” His body tenses and I know he’s coming too. It feel it happen inside of me, his cock growing even harder and, impossibly, larger. He groans and releases in one hard, perfect thrust, and I come again with him, me impaled on his cock, my pussy clenching and clenching again.
“I need…Adrian, I need…” I pant, unable to get the words out.
“What?” He leans forward. “I can get you anything.”
“I need…a pencil and paper. I have to write that down!”
~1,822 ORGASMS LATER~
CLEO
Dear Sex King,
What’s the best shower sex position to maximize female pleasure? My boyfriend loves shower sex, but I never seem to be able to come when we do it. Any recommendations? Thanks,
Wet but not Wet
He reads it aloud to me. I’m leaning over his shoulder, one arm hooked around his neck, a glass of wine in the other.
“You know,” I point out, “there’s that giant shower in the beach house. We’ve only used it once.”
“This might call for some research,” he agrees, kissing me deeply.
“And you know how good we are at research.”
We head toward the beach house, hand in hand, and…
What? You think you’re going to get treated to another round of Adrian and Cleo Do the Nasty? Aren’t you satisfied by now? Jeez.
I’ll use this time instead to fill you in on a few things.
1. Adrian and I have been together for six months. And yes, he meant it when he said he never comes before a girl has had at least four orgasms. And on an average day, we do it twice. Of course, some days we only do it once, and some days Adrian’s on a shoot and I can’t come (literally), but the times when we spend all day in bed probably make up for that somewhat, so that comes (literally) out to about…oh, forget it. I suck at math.
2. Marie’s series has shot to the tops of the bestseller lists and stayed there. There’s talk of a movie. Adrian’s considering branching out of modeling to acting. I think he’d make a great Jonathan.
3. Since Marie has taken control of her own sex scenes (and damn, can she write some steamers) I’ve been working on my own smutty novel. The main character’s name is Chloe. And the love interest’s name is Aidan. It has no bearing on my own life, of course. That would be silly.
4. Therese found a thirty-year-old hiker that she’s been dating for a solid month—her record.
5. We moved Adrian’s sex advice column to the internet, and within a week, it went viral. We don’t have time to attend to it every day, but occasionally we pop on and see who we can help. And sometimes, it takes some research.
“Adrian, right there! That feels so good!” I gasp as his cock plunges into me, bracing myself against the shower wall as he grips my hips with both hands and groans into my ear, the hot water pounding down on our backs…
Sorry, where was I?
6. Adrian finally agreed to keep up his work as a model for White Steel. If you ask me, that’s what they were banking on happening when they chose him to debut their fall season, even without a long-term contract. And White Steel is all about the exotic locales. And Adrian is all about me. Christmas break, it was Belize. Now, spring break? It’s the Caribbean.
7. No, I haven’t told Adrian I love him yet. But I’ve been trying! For about a week. And I’ve decided that today’s the day.
I tried to tell him over a breakfast of fresh fruit, pancakes, tea, and crumbly cheese, but what came out was “I’m in love with…the sand here. Like, wow. Best sand ever.”
“It’s pretty great sand,” he had agreed, kissing the top of my head. “Let’s go get naked on it.”
Which drove all non-nudity related thoughts out of my mind.
I tried again right after we went snorkeling. I popped out of the water, pulled off my mouthpiece, and announced, “Adrian, I’m in love with…this water! So crystal clear. Super great water.”
“It’s pretty nice,” he had agreed. “You probably don’t even want your bikini between it and your skin.”
Turns out, I didn’t.
I made another honest attempt about two hours later, on a gorgeous hike through palm trees and wilderness. I stopped him on a beautiful rise overlooking the ocean, beneath a thick tree with low branch
es. “Adrian, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He had paused, looked at me, and kissed me. He rarely looks at me without kissing me these days. Such a hard life.
“I love…” I could feel my tongue forming different words, dodging the ones that were so hard to say. “I love…” Damn it. “I love…This tree.” Fuck.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, glancing up at he leaf canopy overhead, “I’ve never had sex in a tree before.”
You can guess what happened.
I don’t know what my problem is! I’m a healthy, sane adult woman. I regularly spew such weird things out of my mouth that small children have been hustled away from me more than once. And yet, I’m terrified to say those three little words.
I practice in front of my mirror.
“I lav you,” I say in a Russian accent. And then in a French. “I am in love with you, mon cherie. Wait, is that something you can say to men?”
I practice on wild animals.
“I love you, tiny brightly-colored frog. Wait, no, you’re poisonous, aren’t you? I don’t love you. I take it back!”
I practice on the locals.
“I love you,” I inform a dreadlocked man selling beads by the beach.
“I’m married,” he informs me back.
Turns out I can say those words to a lot of things and people. Just not Adrian King.
In the end, I have to email the only person I can trust for advice.
But it takes forever for him to check his email.
“Don’t you think you should check the Sex King inbox?” I say to him the next morning as we cuddle together in his miles wide, king-size (literally) bed. Which we have already christened. Multiple times.
“I’d rather stay naked in bed with you forever,” he says. And I can’t argue with him.
After our forever, I bring it up again during our seafood lunch in a small local restaurant. “There’s probably some poor girl out there who has no idea where her G-spot is. Shouldn’t we help out!”
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “The G-spot is on the first page of the FAQ.”
And finally, that evening, when we’re watching the sun spray orange streaks through the wispy clouds from our porch, waiting for the last strains of light to dip behind the ocean, I carry his laptop out and deposit it on his legs.
