Pool Man by Sabrina York Page A

the words from his lips were an order.
    “Go on,” he urged. “Do it. Nipples first.”
    I don’t know why it mortified me, the thought of pleasuring myself before him, but it did. And somehow, that mortification stoked the fire of my lust. He kissed my foot again as I dragged my fingers up my side in a slow slide. Then I circled my breasts. He sucked, nibbled as I made another circle, smaller this time, and another, smaller still until I was ringing my aureole, scraping a nail on the bumps that rose.
    He hissed in a breath, his gaze glued to my finger.
    I touched my nipple and glory rained through me. God. I’d touched myself before. It had never felt like this .
    “More.” A groan. “More.”
    With trembling hands I cradled my breasts and swiped both nipples with my thumbs, nudging them, offering them perhaps. He shuddered; his mouth, velvet and warm, continued its foray. My arousal swelled. I plucked and pinched and tugged at my turgid peaks as he brought me closer and closer to heaven.
    A great quake took me as he moved—finally moved—up to my ankle and to my calf and then to my thigh as if, once he’d begun the journey, he couldn’t wait to reach his destination.
    He walked himself between my legs and, cuffing my ankles in a warm hold, angled my legs around his torso. I hooked them together and held on tight.
    “Keep touching yourself,” he clipped, his focus taut. He zeroed in on my mound, opening me with his thumbs. And then he dipped his head.
    One lap.
    That was all it took. One little lap.
    Hardly worth all the machinations.
    I came. All over his fingers. All over his face. All over his couch.
    Bucking and screaming and plucking at my nipples. Grinding myself into him. Cursing and howling and, in general, acting like a woman absolutely out of control.
    Which I was.
    I wasn’t finished coming when he levered up, took hold of my thighs and yanked me toward him, impaling me on his cock.
    New sensation, new insanity swamped me. His rod was fat and long and fit me perfectly; he planted himself deep and hard with the first lunge. I convulsed around him, shivered, quivered, quaked.
    I plastered myself against his body, so firm, so solid, and clung like a limpet.
    He began a series of short, frenzied thrusts, each accompanied with a huffed, “Yes, yes, yes.” His voice rose as his pace increased, and I began to sing along with him.
    Clenching my muscles, I tried to hold him in. The feeling was so blissful, so perfect I didn’t want to ever let him go. He groaned, the sound rumbling through me, vibrating on the skeins of the air around us.
    “Oh, baby,” he groaned. “Please. Relax.”
    “I can’t!” I wailed. “More. Harder. More.”
    He gritted his teeth and pulled back, looking down to watch his cock jettison in and out of my wet channel. “God, yes.” A snarl. His fingers sank hard into my hips. He held me steady and pummeled me with a manic barrage.
    Each plunge kissed me, just where it should. Each one filled me with a soul-numbing delight.
    Frantically, he sucked in a nipple. Then the other. And then he nested in my neck, huffing in my ear as he worked away in a riotous rush.
    The scent of vanilla and friction and his musk rose between us. Sweat slicked the way as his chest abraded mine. Each movement, each breath sent me hither and yon, higher and higher until I could bear no more. I couldn’t… I couldn’t…
    He sealed his mouth over mine and fucked me with his tongue.
    My body sizzled, seized.
    Something deep within me released, snapped, and ecstasy blossomed like a flower in spring.
    He made a sound, something savage, something that tasted like reprieve on my lips. He thrust one more time, plunging deep, seating himself in my body and melding us as one.
    His hips surged once, twice and a third and final time. And he collapsed on me.
    I held him as he panted. Brushed back his hair and kissed the dampness from his brow.
    He groaned and gasped something I couldn’t quite make out, but