His gaze doesn’t leave mine for a moment as takes me again, his hands on my hips, on my fair, shimmering skin, guiding me out of the kitchen’s darkness, away from my moment of respite, pressing me back into the golden lamplight, into the cold stuccoed arch.

But it isn’t the unforgiving chill of the wall that curves my back, that has my fingers grasping, clawing, that compels my body to seek out his hard, masculine flesh, that sends a violent ripple clear through me.

It is his touch, hot and heavy, insistent on my neck, my breasts, the flat line from my abdomen to my naked mound. It is his mouth, feasting off the lips bruised by his kiss, feeding off my hungry, seeking tongue. It is his imposing body, kneeling before me, wordlessly demanding my desire, my passion, silently possessing me as he plunges two rough digits into this slick and greedy velvet, fingering, fucking, crooked to find that gloriously maddening spot, his tongue intermittently lashing out, raking over my clitoris, his forearm tense, giving its strength, its speed, its sweet brutality, his fingers thrusting, fucking, fucking me hard, fingering me harder, his eyes calling me, commanding me to obey, daring me to defy, his eyes, his fingers, his body, his thick and straining cock needing my fire, my libations, my blistering glisten, my moan, my scream, the hot pool of my come.

It is the flash of charcoal suiting that initially catches her eye; it is the detail of his cuff, the link, the starched white cotton around the strong wrist and large hand that causes her gaze to stray, that draws her along the path up to his stubbled chin, chiselled nose and molten stare.

But it is his thumb, gingerly and sensuously caressing, stroking, tracing the peaks of his lip, which sends a rippling surge through her spine, which sets the blush high on her cheeks, which leaves her breathlessly, achingly yearning to feel the maddening lightness of his touch.

Strong, masculine hands seizing their craving, their want, their desire.

Coarse, powerful hands sweeping, grazing womanly skin silky and fine.

Commanding hands mapping the line of my back, lifting me high, spreading me wide, sating the ache that all but consumes me.

Hands, fingers, dexterous and greedy, that tease my clit, that work my slit, that crook to find my sweet little spot, that fill my tight cunt to the brim.

Hands caressing my face, my neck, the soft mounds of my breasts, vice-like grip on my hips as his thick shaft glides in to the hilt, as it savagely pounds my slick velvet heat.

Hands in my hair, on my head, digits mapping the curve of my lips as I slide your glans deep, deep inside, as my tongue licks and laps at your slippery head, as I fuck your pulsating cock with my mouth.

Hands tenderly fixing ties that fasten and bind, marking my form with the signs of possession for which I yearn and long.

Hands speaking their sensual passion, recording the rise and fall of my breath, the rhythmic, thudding beat in my chest, committing to memory the body laid bare before them.

Hands, hands, his glorious hands, weapons of worship and hungry invasion.

The hands holding me down, the hands setting me free.

The hands touching, taking, giving all that I need.

I didn’t stand a chance. I really didn’t. Once his fingers found the back of my neck I knew my resolve would disappear. Once those big, beautiful hands began their languid yet discreet caress I knew I would be his for the taking.

Just like that.

So easily done. And so damn easy.