Page 31 of Goode Vibrations
Holy mother of orgasms, Batman. Like, whoa.
Maybe it was the fact that it had been several months since I’d had an orgasm that I didn’t give myself, and to be totally honest, the ones I’ve gotten out of Mr. Buzzyguy and the Fingers have been pretty fricking lackluster lately. Boring, low-intensity. I’ve been saving my data and battery life on my phone for emergencies and navigation, which means I’ve been relying on my memory bank for visual and sexual stimulation. Which, normally, is pretty effective. I have a super vivid pictorial memory, and some pretty hot experiences to draw on. But for some reason, the farther I wander from New York, the farther away it all seems.
Another, more significant issue is that most of my more recent sexual experience worth even remembering were with Fucking Asshole Reed Piece of Moldy Dog Shit O-Fucking-Reilly. And I refuse to honor his memory by jilling off to him. I have vowed to purge all memories of him from my mind, heart, body, and soul, now and forevermore, amen. Fuck him. Fuck him with a Saguaro cactus. Shove it sideways up his cheating prick asshole. Which sucks, because sex with Reed was fantastic. Until I found him—
No.
Nope.
Forget that memory.
There is no Reed O’Reilly. There is no Shannyn Mallory. There is no Yvonne Johnson. None of them hold any place in my memory.
I was mentally wandering from the feel of Errol’s fingers—trying to retain some sort of emotional objectivity because good motherfuck, in all my sexual life I’ve never come so hard, so fast, from such little stimulation. He literally touched me, like, twice. A slow wandering touch of his fingers over my thighs, up my seam, and inside me, a swirl around my clit, another, and I was coming so hard I could barely stand up. I had to cling to his shoulders, had to hope if my knees buckled he’d catch me.
“Stop me?” His whisper was a low raspy growl, a seductive leonine hiss of sexual promise that hit my arousal like a freight train. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
Was it possible to come just from a man’s voice? The fucking accent. The confident smirk that said he knewexactlyhow to make me come and keep me there. The roughness of the pad of his fingers, the strength in his hand—made my clit harden to a diamond point, made my nipples ache so bad if he would just brush them with his finger or his lips, I’d come again, even harder. The wild hunger in his eyes that made me feel like not only the only woman in the world, but the most incredible thing he’d ever seen, something he couldn’t go another damn second without.
I’ve beentoldI’m beautiful all my life.
Made tofeelbeautiful? Desirable?
Not as common.
Had I ever felt this way? Had any man ever made me like this?
The resoundingNOthat klaxoned through my mind actually sort of worried me, scared me.
His fingers were exploring my sheath, two of them now, slipped inside my sex and gathering my essence, slicking in and sliding out, a poor imitation of the penetration I needed, wanted. HIM. More of him. The slow in-and-out of his fingers, the way they scissored inside me, the way they curled inward to scrape those rough fingertips against me deep inside in that secret spot so few male fingers ever seemed to find—which he found with unerring accuracy, as if he justknewmy body, as if he’d fingered me before, as if I’d been his and under his spell before—his touch slashed through my wandering, distracto-pony thoughts and demanded my full attention.
“Poppy,” Errol murmured.
“Y-yeah?” I gasped, my hips beginning to move again, subtly, slowly, as he set a gentle and undemanding rhythm.
“You need to come again.”
“Fuck yeah, I do.” I pressed my chest against him, twisted and writhed, seeking friction against my piercings.
His other hand, the one not manipulating me slowly upward toward the knife-edge of another climax, was resting on my hip. Not where I wanted it. I rested my forehead against his chest for balance as I rolled my hips into his touch, pulled my breasts away from his body. I let go of his neck with one hand, grasped the thick wrist of his free hand, guided his palm to slide up over the swell of my hip, along the curve of my waist, pressed his huge strong hand to cup my breast.
He moaned as the delicate, heavy weight of my breast filled his hand. His thumb immediately swiped over my nipple, his fingernail catching on the ball of my piercing, sending a searing jolt of lightning surging through my whole body, drawing a breathless, teeth-clenched scream from me.
“Jesus, Poppy. Fuckin’ sensitive there, aren’t you?”
I lifted up on my toes, drove my nose into the side of his neck, and sank my teeth into the thick tendon of his shoulder, growling like a caged lioness as he dragged his thumbnail over the bar through the nipple to catch on the balls capping either end.
He snarled at my bite, but didn’t pull away, didn’t push me off—instead, he did three things all at once: pinched my nipple, pressed the sandpaper fingertips of three fingers over my clit and circled hard and fast, and rocked his pelvis against my thigh so the hard ridge of a monster erection pressed against me.
“Come for me,” he grunted, low, rough, commanding. “Come,now.”
Obedience to his command was involuntary, a physical, visceral response to his touch, the feel of him, the sound of his voice in my ear, the hard wall of his body providing a safe harbor for me to shelter in as I rode the hurricane waves of orgasm, my throat squeezing as I screamed through it, the sound muffled against the bulk of his shoulder and soft warm skin of his strong neck.
I clawed at his back as I climaxed, for sure leaving reddened marks as my nails dragged over the cotton of his muscle shirt. The moment the peak of climax released me from its clenching, pulsing grip, I raked my fingers down his chest and traced the outline of his erection, greedily seeking to feel the shape of it, the length of it.
“My fucking god, Errol,” I breathed into his ear, awed at what I felt. “You’re fuckinghuge.”
He just laughed. “Glad you like what you feel.”