I screamed. I shook. My body arched as shockwaves of pleasure rode over me, released by her touch. In the echoes of my orgasm I gasped for air, my heart racing in my chest. Her touch skimmed up my stomach, traced up my arms. A sigh trickled from my lips when she released my wrists from the headboard.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, untying my scarf, unblinding me. I blinked, a languid smile meeting hers. I ached perfectly, from my stripped ass to my fucked cunt. She pressed kisses in seemingly random patterns across my skin. Not so random, I knew, as assaulted nerves shivered under her caress. Each kiss acknowledging a mark left behind, broken blood vessels revealing the trail of her mouth.
My lover slid against me and I shivered. My smile turned feral. Her breath hitched when I shifted, pinning her under me, sliding my thigh between hers. “My turn,” I whispered, watching her eyes dilate. It was ever this way, my recoil unleashing in the wake of her hunger. Bend, yield, submit; every time I took everything she gave me, surrendered further and further. But each stroke, each stripe across my flesh of crop and flogger, seemed only to coil the spring of my will tighter. My body tightened and a tiny muscle in my jaw leapt. I could feel my own need, spring-loaded, just waiting its turn.
My scarf slithered across her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. I held her eyes, waiting, watching. We did this well, she and I. She rocked against my thigh, slicking my flesh with her want. Her lips parted, hands tried to draw me closer.
When the length of fabric slide along her cheek she shuddered beneath me. “Yes, please,” she whispered.
It was my turn.