~MIKALO'S FLAME BY SYNDRA K SHAW~
I slipped out from underneath him and kneeled, facing him.
He watched me, silhouetted in the orange and red of the fire, the flames in the fireplace having quieted to a glow.
Peeling the shirt over my head, I ran my hands over my breasts, my pace slow, my fingers calm, unhurried.
I avoided his gaze as I traced my own sensitive circles of flesh, the pink eager and willing. Hungry for a touch. A kiss. The twin nubs yearning for the grazing of teeth.
I knew he was watching. I knew this excited him. And I knew the more I did and the slower I did it, the more desperate his need for me became.
Grabbing a nipple, I pinched. Hard.
I closed my eyes, losing myself to the gentle pain.
He sighed, the unexpected breath thick with emotion. With need. Desire.
And then he cleared his throat, softly, as he swallowed, his tongue shooting forward to quickly lick his lips.
I glanced at him from beneath the curtain of my dark bangs.
His eyes were on my flesh, my fingers caressing my breasts, my stomach. The small pink mountains of flesh he so loved to suck and lick and bite.
Standing, I undid the first button of my jeans.
He raised his head, watching me.
Moving near him, I lifted a foot, placing it in his lap.
He took it, slowly peeling the thin sock free and wrapping his large hands around my slender heel.
Taking it from him, I offered him the second.
Again, the resilient cotton came clear, the foot briefly held and caressed.
I snapped the second button open.
The jeans slid from my waist, the remaining buttons preventing the denim from drifting further.
Shirtless, hungry, horny, Mikalo waited, his frustration growing as his hand flirted with the hardness still hidden in his pants. The fingers first gripping his width and then moving away, denying himself the necessary luxury of that squeeze, before moving back, his need for release growing as I undid a third button.
I stepped away from him and turned, my back now to him.
My hands reached to my breasts again, feeling the generous, smooth flesh, the pink once more teased and pinched.
A fourth button snapped free, my gaze quickly catching his as I looked over my shoulder.
His hands were now rubbing the flesh of his own chest and torso, the fingers toying with his own dark nipples, his mouth slightly open as his breathing grew ragged, the tongue sneaking out again to run themselves over his lips.
I slid the denim down and stepped free.
Behind me, he moaned.
"My Grace," came the whisper.
My ass was nice. This much I knew. As were my legs. Slender but strong, the calves sculpted from years of navigating the city's streets and climbing its many stairs in an almost endless variety of heels.
My fingers hooked into the only thing separating me from nakedness, the fine layer of silk hugging my hips.
I turned, toying with the thin fabric covering the growing damp.
"Now you," I said, holding his gaze as he watched me.
He stood, shirtless, barefoot, and ready, the length of his desire stretching the denim down his thigh.