Page 95 of Sigma
I wash him gently, a little too thoroughly. Once he’s more than clean, I toss the washcloth into the sink and quit the pretense—simply fondle his cock with one hand and his balls with the other. Gradually, taking perhaps a bit longer than last time, he rouses to life in my hands.
He stands with that stillness of his, watching my hands move on him. His brow is furrowed, his jaw clenched. I stroke him slowly, cupping his balls with the other hand, gradually sliding my middle finger along his perineum and pressing until he hisses, hips beginning their helpless thrust into my touch.
“Are you trying to make me paint the mirror with my cum?” he grumbles through clenched teeth.
I giggle—a sound very much unlike me. “That would be fun to see.”
He presses backward and twists out of my touch. “Waste of a perfectly good erection,” he mutters. “I have something better in mind.”
He lifts me onto the counter and his hands skate from my thighs to my hips, up my belly to my breasts, and his mouth fuses with mine. His fingers find my sex and touch my clit while simultaneously pinching my nipple. He plays me to writhing arousal like this, until I’m shaking at the edge of climax.
He moves to sink to his knees, but I stop him. “I don’t need that,” I whisper, scooting my ass to the edge of the counter and pulling him to me. “I just need this.”
He sinks into me, and I groan at the bursting fullness of his cock inside me. I clutch his face in my hands and demand his kiss—his hands bury in my hair and he meets my kiss with the crushing intensity I’ve come to expect from him. We move together slowly, unhurried—well, he does the moving, bending at the knees and lifting and the hips to drive up into me.
He pulls me closer, and my legs coil around his waist, and he stands up with me, and now I take over our movement, arms wrapped around his neck and bracing on his shoulders to lift my weight and let me sink down on him. And like this, I take all of him there can possibly be and then some, sinking so far down that I cry out with the ache of him so deep, so perfect. He walks with me, striding effortlessly as if I weigh nothing at all, but at each lowering thrust he staggers with a grunt.
We’re in the closet, and he finds a section of blank wall near the doorway and presses my back to it, and now we move in concert, him driving upward as I sink down. He grunts and growls and I whimper and I wail.
He’s bare, and so thick inside me, and his sliding thrusts are slick and powerful, driving into me and hitting me just right, making me quake from head to toe, from fingertip to toenail, making my pussy clench around him.
I’ve never felt this way before, never. The physical connection between us is unreal, as if our bodies were created for the specific intention of union, of completing each other. Each movement of his body is perfectly attuned to mine, each thrust of his cock designed to make me wild, each touch of his lips to mine crafted to send me soaring to ever more frenetic heights of desire.
It terrifies me.
Deep in my soul, I know this mastery of his body over mine is unnatural, too good, too perfect, too right. He knows my reactions. He knows my whimpers. When I begin to ache and cannot find the edge, he knows how to change his strokes to hit me in a new place, knows how to angle just so and I find a renewed shivering push toward the peaking wilds of climax.
Deep in my soul, I know this is so much more than merely fucking.
Does he know it?
Can he feel it?
Can he feel the frenzied force of our fucking in the dark, unknowable depths of his soul like I can?
I cling to him and bury my face in space between his jaw and his ear, his hair tickling my nose, and I whimper.
He holds me by the ass and pulls me apart to thrust deeper yet, and I feel him sagging, feel his knees giving out.
“Corinna,” he gasps, voice ragged. “You feel too fucking perfect.”
His legs collapse beneath us, and he sinks to his knees with me sitting on his thighs, and now I snake my arms around his neck and sit on my shins and kiss down on him with all the fury of my shuddering need, and he fingers my clit as I ride him. His groans are shaky, and I feel him throbbing inside me.
“Apollo,” I sob, exploding around him, “my god, my Apollo, fuck, fuck,fuck—fuck me, Apollo, fuck me as hard as you can don’t stop…”
I slam down on him, my ass cracking against his thighs, and he drives up to meet me, and I come around him, his fingers flying against me to push me to the mad, screaming, shaking, thrashing, sobbing clash of my climax.
“Fuck, Corinna, fuck, ohfuck—” His voice is breathless, and I feel him pulsating inside me, preparing to come.
He topples us to the side and we roll into the interior of the closet, and he ends up above me, pumping into me as hard as he can, spearing deep and groaning with each thrust.
“Fuck!” he shouts, head dropping to my breasts as he fights the edge, wanting as I do to drag this out, to make this last forever. “I have to…” he pants, “I have to come, Corinna. I can’t stop. I can’t…fuck, I can’t hold it back any longer.”
“Give it to me, Apollo,” I whisper into his ear, the words as much a kiss as speech. “Come for me. Come for me, come right now.”
He doesn’t.
He pulls out.