Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(46)

Then, reaching down, Malcolm began to rip away the towels, exposing the warm clay to the air, and I reached out and dug my fingers into it, feeling it cake beneath my fingernails as I held on for dear life while his thrusts became wild and uncontrolled.#p#分页标题#e#

"Fuck, Sadie," he grunted. "You feel too good."

I wanted to tell him there was no such thing, but I felt the same way. He was too good, frighteningly so. Humans weren't meant to feel this way, I thought, the part of me that hid under all my brashness, my crudities, my artistic flairs whispering its insecurities in my ear. Something this good can't last. Something this wonderful is not meant for you.

I bit my lip as Malcolm abruptly pulled out, and I felt the loss of him inside me so sharply I almost screamed No, but I didn't. He didn't want me speaking. I wanted to give him what he wanted. Everything he did to me was exactly what I needed, even though I hadn't known what it was.

Tugging on my hips, he pulled me from the block of clay and removed the last of the towels before assisting me back onto it, on my hands and knees. His hands were large and warm on my skin, and as he took up his position behind me I braced myself. The clay moved under me. It resisted, but it moved.

Oh, I thought.

His cock found my pussy and slid inside again, an easy entrance this time. His hips picked up a quick, sharp pace, and I cried out, my limbs suddenly trembling with the effort of staying upright on the slick clay. Streaks of red earth traced paths over my skin when I slipped and fell, scraping my elbows and arms over the clay, but Malcolm didn't let up. Within minutes we had worn a groove into the sculpture with the force of our fucking and my arms and hands were caked with clay.



Sliding out again, he helped me down. My pussy pounded with my heartbeat and I felt the sweet beginnings of a powerful orgasm building in my belly. God, he was beautiful, I realized as I stood and watched him climb onto the clay himself, settling down on his back, his cock, slick with the juices of my cunt, jutting proudly in the air. He looked like one of those Greek statues, well balanced, perfectly proportioned, ready to leap into battle, throw a javelin, triumph over Persians or whatever, I didn't care and I could barely think as he extended one hand toward me, his beautiful dark eyes smiling, burning into my skin, his fingers awaiting my own.

I put my hand in his, and he helped me up onto the clay, bracing me as I swung a leg over his hips and stared down at him, stunning and mysterious, flawless and obscured. He was a work of art, too, I realized. Very much so. We were two very different kinds of art, mating and making a third. A sacred coupling, a symbolic procreation. My heart hurt for some reason, thinking of the clay beneath us as the product of our union    . Had he thought through those implications, or was he only pursuing me in his own roundabout way, unsure how to deal with the things I inspired in him, putting a layer between us as he tried to connect with me?

His hands gripped my hips and guided me over his cock. Slowly I slid down onto his erection, panting and trembling as he filled me again. When at last we were flush with each other, he reached up and smoothed his hands over my ribs, trailing his fingertips up my spine. He lingered on the ink in my flesh, sending shivers out over my body, but he didn't seem to be startled by the scars I had hidden well with my designs, and he certainly didn't remark upon them. He was a gentleman like that.

Streaks of red clay traced across both of us now, and I felt tiny balls of it rolling between his skin and mine where he touched me. The smell of wet, sweet earth and fucking surrounded us.

I licked my lips, waiting for him to instruct me.

"Sadie," he said at last. "Ride me until you come."

He didn't have to tell me twice. Bracing myself on his shoulders, I angled my pussy over his cock and began to ride him. Under me, he arched and thrust in time, a perfect partner in our dance. His legs rose up, pushed down, and beneath us the clay began to give way, molding around us as we fucked.

His hands were everywhere on me as I rode him, squeezing my ass, cupping my breasts, scratching down my arms until abruptly he took over again, turning me under him, but by now the clay beneath us had been fucked away into a new form, and we twisted and braced against it, our hands scrabbling for purchase as I moaned and he plunged into me over and over, driving me relentlessly toward the release I needed. I didn't know what to do, my toes curling, my body winding up into a ball of pure need. His cock in my cunt pounded out a raw, primal rhythm, but his body as it arched over me, thrust into me, was poetic, classical. His muscles quivered under his skin and I ran my hands over them, feeling them bunch and pull, shift and slip. My core tightened, drew in, and I bore down on him, straining and reaching for my orgasm as the wet clay slipped and slid beneath my back. I groaned, pushing back, clinging, aching.