Ms. Manwhore

I run my fingers over his shoulders and push his shirt back, watching his chest flex as he shrugs it off.

My fingers wander over all the muscles and skin I just revealed. “Dibs on every part I kiss,” I say.

He watches me, his eyes filling with a raw, deep longing as I lean forward to press kisses on his abs. Up his chest. He lets me, his muscles hardening under my fingers as I lean on him to brush my lips downward now as I unfasten his jeans.

I unzip him, and when he slowly comes to his feet, I’m readily pulling his jeans down his long, muscled, hair-dusted legs.

He’s letting me, watching me, eye-fucking me.

When he’s all golden, wet skin, he lowers himself again and I edge up to press my curves to his hard body. All these muscles are so perfectly natural, produced by sports. Polo. Skydiving. Yachting. The gym. Perfection.

“You missed a spot,” he says huskily, sliding a hand up my back.

I kiss his hard-on as tenderly as I did the rest of him.

His expression is all wicked eyes and devil’s grin. He trails his eyes over my face. “You tired?”

A pulsing knot within me demands more. “Not anymore.”

He eases a tendril of wet hair behind my ear, and then he leans forward and whispers in my ear, “You are going to be really exhausted by the end of the night.”

“Oh god, I’m so turned on right now.”

He leads me up to my feet. “My turn.”

I’m shaking wetly as he towers before me and looks possessively into my eyes. He unzips my damp white skirt. With a long, gentle tug, he eases it off my hips and it hits the floor. The scent of rain mingled with his shampoo invades the air as he opens up my shirt, his fingers slow and easy.

My knees go weak when I hear the long, hot breath he expels as he parts the fabric. Green eyes, violent with lust, admire my lacey, see-through panties and my matching bra. I can see by the way his pupils are dilating that Malcolm hasn’t failed to notice the dusky pink of my nipples through the flimsy material.

His hands, expert and sure, continue easing off my shirt. He misses nothing as he strips my panties down my legs. He unhooks my bra, peeling it off my wet skin. His eyes sweep over me, approving and adoring. And then his hands stroke over my naked shape, drying me.

He ducks his head. His tongue flicks my earlobe, and then he turns my chin and he slides his lips over mine.

“Dibs on my wife,” he rasps, and kisses my mouth, completely and thoroughly. I moan. His hands spread on my back, bringing me close to his naked body as he drops a fervent kiss on the back of my ear. “Dibs on this ear.”

I laugh, so hot and bothered, my arms clench reflexively around his neck. Quakes overtake me as he runs his hands, flat and smooth, all over my curves, drying me some more.

He looks at me with this little smile when the sensations of his touch make me gasp, and his eyes are sparks of heat fixed on my face. They look so heavy, his eyes, his lashes dark, sweeping downward as he dips his head and drags his lips sinuously along my neck, to my collarbone, my shoulders, toward my very pulse point, now fluttering in the nook where the gold R and M necklaces lay nestled.

His tongue dips into the nook and he no doubt tastes the rain there. I shiver, uncontrollably, as the heat inside my body rises. My fingers trail up the wet muscles of his arms.

His lips seduce and sear my damp skin as they roam over my jaw, to my ear, and then head back to my mouth. My hands roam the grooves of his back, damp too. Then he takes my wrists and pulls my hands to my sides, walks me back, and rests them on the wall.

He interlaces our fingers, his grip strong as anchors, and starts to kiss my lips, softly. His body’s still wet, but mine has been dried by his hands. I push upward to feel him, rubbing my breast against his flat chest, the wet making me ache.

“I need . . . god, I need you so much,” I gasp in his ear.

He eases back. He loves foreplay, and he seems determined to make it last. He strokes the knuckles of one hand down my face. “Good so far?”

I’m suddenly overcome with butterflies inside.

I press my nose into his neck and close my eyes and let myself enjoy his fabulously manly smell. “Good. Get closer, Malcolm, please.”

My hands snake up the back of his neck, into his wet hair. His hands rub up my back. Before I know it, I tip my head back, he ducks his, and our lips are fusing together. I press myself to him, wanting him to devour me.

He lifts me to a table, his lids halfway down his eyes as he drinks me in.

Then my tongue is tracing his nipples; first one, in a neat wet circle, then the other. He reaches to brush the wet tendrils of my hair back and peers with intimate intensity into my face while my fingers trail down the ripples of his abs, toward the perfect V that dips into the mat of hair where his massive erection greets me.

“Did you miss me like I missed you, Rachel?” he whispers, cradling my breasts with his hands, thumbs tweaking. Sparks shoot off in me as I hold him in my hand.

I breathlessly nod. “So much.”

I’ve had sex but it’s crazy with him. I’m feverish. He’s calm and collected, but he’s so wired for me, his body hums and crackles with electricity.

He’s hard and ready, the head of his lovely dick already wet, and I nibble his throat as I reach around his lean hips and grab part of his ass to get him closer.

When I rub his erection with the heel of my palm, he mock-chides, “All right, you’re playing dirty now,” lifts me up in his arms, walks us to the room, then lowers me on the plushest bed I’ve ever lain on.

He parts my legs with his hands, urging the inside of my thighs to fall open, and I grow even more restless when his green eyes settle on the part where I most ache.