Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [279]
When my lip felt the solid touch of the front of his body, then, and only then, did I let myself begin to slide back up. It was always so much easier going up than coming down. I came up off of him, breathless, but pleased. I’d only recently been able to do that with Micah, after some very embarrassing failed attempts. Like in throwing up embarrassing. It’s one of the reasons you should never try this stuff with people unless you love them. People who love you don’t point and laugh.
I didn’t give him time to catch his breath, only for me to catch mine. I slid my mouth back over him, swallowed him down, until the back of my throat convulsed around the end of him, and I could feel my throat close around the end of him, so deep, so terribly deep. I slid back up the long, thick, shaft of him, then forced myself down, down, until I met his body with my lips, and there was nowhere else to go, no more of him to take inside me. Then it wasn’t that I tried to squeeze him in my mouth, but that my throat convulsed on its own, tightening down around him, my body trying to get rid of something so big, so impossible to swallow. I swallowed my own saliva, so I didn’t choke on it. Only when I knew I couldn’t take anymore, that one more time shoving him so deep in my throat would hurt, did I let myself stop swallowing. I let the wetness of my own mouth trail behind my lips, slide down the thickness of him, trail in thick, wet, lines down the shaft of him, until he was as wet from my mouth as he would have been between my legs.
Richard’s voice, “God, Anita, God.”
I raised my mouth off of him, my own saliva trailing in thick lines from my mouth to his body. I raised up and turned carefully, slowly, so he’d get the full visual.
He was staring down his body at me, his eyes too wide, face almost frantic. “Anita,” and then, he saw me, and the visual threw his head back, spasmed his hands out, searching for something to hold on to. He’d already thrown off every pillow near him. Richard’s hands searching for a headboard that wasn’t there, searching for something to hold on to. His hand hit Jean-Claude’s hand with a sharp smack of flesh on flesh.
Richard stopped his frantic flailing, looked at the other man, who had been so quiet, so still, pressed against the wall and the top of the bed. They had a moment when they were meeting each other’s eyes. I don’t know what Richard would have said, or done, because I rolled my hands up and over his groin, used the thick liquid to smooth over him, to glide over the head of him. It closed his eyes, and bowed his spine.
I turned, so that I was facing them. I wanted to watch their faces. I wrapped my hand around him, about halfway down, then bent my face back over him and slid him into my mouth, until I came to my hand. It was easier to take him in, faster, harder. With all of him it had been a fight, and no matter how good it felt having him in my mouth, down my throat, I was still fighting my body to keep him down, to breathe, to swallow, so that saliva didn’t build up and make me choke. There was so much to concentrate on that I didn’t have time to enjoy it as much as I wanted to. With only about half of him to work with, it was just fun. It wasn’t just the feel of him, so ripe and hard in my mouth, but the skin was so soft, softer than any other skin on the body. It was like rolling muscled silk on my tongue, pounding it inside my mouth.
I watched Richard’s body while I did it. His whole body writhed, his frantic breathing making everything from his stomach to his shoulders move. Both his hands were clasped in Jean-Claude’s hands now. Richard’s hands convulsed, until the muscles in his arms bulged, and he came up off the bed, crying a sound that was both a moan and scream that ended with my name. He settled back to the bed, his eyes closed, and I had a moment to look into Jean-Claude’s face