He dabs more ice-cream onto her pu**y, until the part of her clit that is visible to him is all covered with it. Cold liquid worms into the recesses between her labia, and her womb contracts for the exquisiteness of it. He prizes open her nether lips so that he can pool more ice-cream into her hidden flesh. Her hands flutter to stop him – and yet she doesn’t want him to stop.
It’s too overwhelming – this intimate freezing of her most secret places.
She moans. Her hands come down to clutch his hair. She grabs tufts of its rich, tawny texture. He lowers his face to her creamed pu**y – doubly creamed in both ways – and tongues her sticky flesh. He licks her and slathers her and makes little oscillations all around her clit and pu**y lips, until she is writhing and arching her back and grinding her teeth and making little tortured noises in her throat. Her thighs are clenching to remain open because her natural instinct is to close them against too much pleasure.
His ice-cream slicked fingers creep to her pu**y hole. The lightning chill extends to her snug passageway as his fingers burrow inside. They plunge leisurely in and out of her, eliciting a fresh secretion of her own creams as he continues to lave the external parts of her genitalia with his wicked tongue.
Her gasps become more torturous and her breathing becomes more labored. Her hips lift themselves off the table as he presses his mouth down on her clit. She’s cresting. Oh, how she is cresting. His teeth gently seize the wrinkled flesh in between them, and she comes violently under his mouth. The orgasm rips through her body, sending spasms throughout her entire musculature. All her nerve endings become inflamed.
He holds her down as she shudders and shakes with the tides of pleasure rolling all over her. And she has scarcely recovered when he holds up a silver foil packet and tears it with his teeth.
“Here, put it on me,” he says softly.
She doesn’t think she has the strength. But she arouses herself anyway to sheath the slightly wet condom around his marvelous cock.
He poises his body on top of her. Then he digs his entire right hand into a tub of mint ice-cream and slathers the creamy concoction all over his covered penis. He rubs his organ, making sure her eyes are upon it as it grows ever more tumescent.
When he’s ready, he positions himself between her legs. His pupils are extremely dilated as he looks down upon her with obvious desire and need. His breathing is ragged as the tip of his cold c**k nudges her well-creamed pu**y hole.
“You ready?” he says in a hoarse voice.
She has been ready since the first time she saw him.
He pushes himself in with a rush. The coldness of his rod contrasts vastly with the heat of his thrust. She cries out at the unexpected dichotomy.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Never better.”
It’s true. She can gaze into his beautiful brown eyes forever – those orbs of molten chocolate. He begins to move inside her – slow and with feeling. The iciness abates with his movements, and she’s a melted gooey mess down there again. Her vaginal walls expand and contract with a gushy, slithery sensation. She feels . . . oh so satisfied . . . so taken . . . so possessed . . . and years of female empowerment cannot erase this wanting to be claimed by a dominant alpha male who makes her feel feminine and desired and treasured.
She closes her eyes to savor every thrust, every pummel of her cervical mouth by his cock. He angles his crown at her G-spot, the one he has discovered in their first sexual encounter together, and she can feel the nerve bundle there being stimulated . . . massaged to distraction. She clasps his back, already sweaty, and he bends his head down to cover her mouth with his lips.
He kisses her as he f**ks her – two juxtaposing sensations at either end of her body. His kisses are soft and warm and sweet. Literally sweet. He tastes of ice-cream – all the mixed flavors he has been swirling upon his tongue. Meanwhile, his pumping is raw and vigorous and frenzied, as if his hips possess a kinetic energy of their own.
She doesn’t want to come before him this time because she already has had her pleasure. But try as she might, she cannot stop the crescendo of her own mounting climax. She might as well try to stop a battering ram. He has already spoilt her for other men, and she does not dare open her eyes because she knows what she will see. His melting chocolate orbs gazing into hers, full of promise and emotion and desire.
She is afraid that if she looks too deeply into his eyes, she will fall over the cliff for him – madly, truly, and without abandon. And she cannot allow herself to love a man who will not love her back.
But she can physically take whatever pleasure she can from him while he is still here.
So she gives in to the mountain that sweeps her to its peaks. She enters that stratosphere of bliss and clouds and refined, shuddering eroticism that she has visited so frequently since she has known him. She screams his name to the ceiling of the parlor as her orgasm – her second of the day, a far more violent one than before – takes her and throws her against a wall of mindless pleasure.
Oh Brian, Brian, Brian.
As she comes to, she finds her mouth enveloped in his as he shudders and gasps out her name in his own climax. Are her ears ringing or does she imagine that she hears him whisper, I love you?
You can never count on a man to mean what he says during an orgasm.
5
Sam sits at her desk in her narrow office, furiously researching Henry Moody. Piles of papers lie on her desk.
Outside in the corridor, Kathy Angleston passes by in her mile high heels, wearing a smug expression on her over-rouged face. She glances at Sam, but does not poke her head in to make small talk. Honestly, that woman is covered under an inch of makeup. By all accounts, she has probably wormed her way into Henry Moody’s pants already.
Sam grimaces. She picks up the phone and punches a few numbers. She holds while the phone on the other side rings.
The connection clicks.
“Henry Moody’s office,” says a voice.
Sam puts on her brightest affectation. “Hello, Ms. Stetson. I am told that you are Mr. Moody’s personal assistant. May I please make an appointment with him?”
“What is it about?”
Sam launches into a well-rehearsed mini sales pitch. An elevator speech, to be exact.
Ms. Stetson interrupts, “Excuse me, Ms. Fox, but Mr. Moody does not take unsolicited sales pitches. We already have a long-standing contract with McConnaughey Supplies. We will call you if we’re interested.”
“I understand, but when Mr. Moody hears what I have to offer, which far surpasses anything McConnaughey Supplies can do, he will be saving hundreds of thousands of dollars – ”