Sweet

[Ki****]

Art of Anticipation
The air in our small apartment was thick with unspoken promise. Jamie had that glint in her eye, the one that told me she’d been plotting something delicious all day. She stood by our bed, her curvy frame silhouetted against the soft lamplight, a playful smirk playing on her lips. Her brown hair was tousled, falling around her shoulders in soft waves, and I could just make out the intricate lines of the tattoo that curled over her shoulder—a detail I loved tracing with my tongue.

“Lie down,” she commanded, her voice a low, velvety murmur that went straight to my core. Her tone held a familiar authority, one that made my heart beat a little faster. I complied without hesitation, stretching out on the cool sheets, the rough texture of my kilt brushing against my thighs.

She moved with purpose, retrieving a length of black silk from the bedside drawer. Her fingers were deft as she tied the blindfold over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. The loss of sight heightened every other sense. I could hear the soft rustle of her movements, smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the clean linen of our sheets.

“Keep your hands above your head,” she instructed, and I felt the gentle but firm pressure of her palm guiding my wrists to the headboard. There was no restraint, just her expectation—and I had no intention of disappointing her.

The first touch was a shock of sensation—cool, slick oil warmed by her hands as she began to knead the tense muscles of my shoulders. Her thumbs worked in slow, deliberate circles, finding every knot and coaxing it to release. The scent of sandalwood filled the air, rich and earthy. Her touch was confident, possessive even, as she mapped the terrain of my body, the tattoos that adorned my skin serving as landmarks under her exploring fingers.

She took her time, her hands moving lower, along the ridges of my abdomen, the defined lines of muscle she knew so well. Each stroke was a tease, a promise of what was to come. I could hear her breathing, steady and controlled, could feel the heat of her body as she leaned over me, her breasts brushing against my chest occasionally, sending jolts of electricity through me.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmured, her voice close to my ear, her breath warm against my skin. “I love feeling you tremble under my hands.”

Her words were a catalyst, fueling the fire she was so expertly stoking. Her fingers trailed lower, skimming the waistband of my kilt, and I sucked in a sharp breath. She chuckled softly, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through me.

“Patience,” she purred, her hands retreating, only to return with something else—the familiar weight and hum of a toy she favored. She didn’t use it on me immediately. Instead, she traced patterns on my inner thighs with it, the vibration a maddening tease against my sensitive skin. The buzz was a constant, low thrum, a counterpoint to the rapid beating of my heart.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, her voice dropping into that register she used when she was fully in control, when she was drawing out every secret desire.

“You,” I ground out, my voice rough with need. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

She rewarded my honesty with a slow, deliberate stroke of the toy along the length of my cock, still confined by the wool of my kilt. The sensation was intense, almost too much, and a groan was torn from my throat.

“How?” she pressed, moving the toy in torturously slow circles. “How do you want me?”

“Ride me,” I managed to say, the words strained. “I want to watch you take every inch. I want to feel you slamming down on me, claiming me.”

I heard her sharp intake of breath, felt the bed dip as she moved. The blindfold was suddenly gone, and I blinked against the light. She was straddling my hips, her eyes dark with hunger, her own need evident in the flush on her chest, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. She’d shed her clothes while I was blind, and the sight of her—completely bare, shaved, her skin gleaming with a slight sheen of sweat—was breathtaking.

She didn’t wait. She positioned herself above me, her gaze locked with mine, and sank down onto my cock in one fluid, devastating motion. The fit was perfect, tight and overwhelming. Her head fell back, a raw cry escaping her lips as she took me fully, burying me deep inside her.

For a moment, she was still, letting us both adjust to the sensation, her inner muscles clenching around me rhythmically. Then she began to move, rising up until I was almost free of her heat before plunging back down with a *** that stole the air from my lungs. She set a punishing pace, her hips rolling, slamming down onto me with a primal intensity that spoke of pure, unadulterated need.

Her hands were on my chest, nails digging into my skin, her tattoos flexing with the motion of her body. I gripped her hips, my fingers pressing into the soft flesh, helping to guide her rhythm, to meet her thrust for thrust. The room filled with the sounds of our joining—skin slapping against skin, her ragged moans, my guttural groans.

“Harder,” she gasped, her voice breaking on the word. “Don’t hold back.”

I obeyed, driving up into her with all the strength I had, meeting her fierce descent with equal ***. She rode me with abandon, a wild, beautiful creature lost in the sensation, her body a symphony of pleasure and power. I could feel the coil of my own release tightening, a pressure building in the base of my spine, but I focused on her, on the way her body milked me, on the look of ecstatic surrender on her face.

She came with a shattered cry, her body convulsing around me, her inner walls gripping me like a vise. The sensation tore my own orgasm from me, a wave of pure, blinding pleasure that crashed over us both, leaving us trembling and breathless in its wake.

She collapsed forward onto my chest, her body slick with sweat, her heart hammering against mine. We lay there for a long time, tangled together in the aftermath, the only sound our gradually slowing breaths.

Her fingers traced the lines of my beard softly. “Welcome home,” she whispered, a satisfied smile in her voice.

And in that moment, surrounded by the scent of us and the fading echoes of our passion, there was nowhere else I’d rather be.