Even though my fiery arousal is soaking the scarlet lace covering my modesty, darkening the fabric nestled between my legs, filling the room with my uniquely pungent scent, he wants more, he needs more.
He needs me wetter than I’ve ever been before, he needs to see my glisten drenching the delicate filigree, scorching the skin of my smoothly shaven mound as the dampness rises up towards the ebony bow perched innocently on the boundary up high. He needs to see it, to smell it, to feel it dripping its trail on my inner thighs, pooling on my bed, marking the crisp, white sheeting for hours, for days to come.
He needs it, his voice tells me between a growl and a hiss, his throbbing scarlet hardness betraying his own lascivious hunger as he spreads my legs out wide, his hands following the stocking covered line, momentarily hovering, teasing, taunting with me with the promise of his touch, his hands finally finding landfall again as they caress then take their sweet hold, one up the side of my neck to wind through the curls at my nape, the other clutching at my sex like possessor and invader, dextrous fingers at long last edging the fine weave to reveal the gleaming ruby of my lips, of the cunt longing to wrap itself around his leaking cock.
And just as I think he’ll give in to my desire as well as his own, just when I believe my throaty pleas and moans will see him acquiesce, he releases the fabric to devour me, suckle on me through the flooded lace, to slide his shaft along the slippery boundary, to press his cockhead into me so hard for a moment I wonder if he will shred, tear, break through the cruel little barrier to sheath his cock with me, to meet and fuck and have my greedy velvet heat.