Risky and Wild(74)
“I can't stand up anymore,” she whispers, her voice a delicious blend of agony and pleasure, the sound shooting through me like a gunshot, turning my cock to diamond as I growl and encourage her to hook her left leg over my shoulder. The weight of Lyric's body is nothing she's so goddamn tiny, and I'm so fucking turned on that I wouldn't notice if she weighed a hundred stone.
My mouth works at the lace while my hand teases a steady rhythm against the ridged warmth of her body. As soon as she clamps down on me, crying out and bucking her pelvis against my face, I'm drenched with the heat of her orgasm and my brain's damn near fried.
I can't wait any longer. Sliding Lyric's leg carefully off my shoulder, I keep her standing with my hands on her hips and rise to my feet.
“Come with me.”
My fingers curl around Lyric's left hand, the feeling of my sister's ring warm against the inside of my palm. Just for right now, I'm going to pretend this all works out, that she says yes, that I can move her into my place and call her my wife.
It makes everything feel that much more real, that much sweeter, sharper. It makes me wonder how I ever found any of the leather lovers attractive, why a quick clumsy fumble in the dorm rooms was worth shit. Compared to this, it was less than dirt.
“Where are we going?” Lyric asks, but she follows me into the garage anyway, down the cement steps and over to my bike. “Oh.” That sound, the heat that infuses her cheeks when she sees what I've got planned is fucking priceless. Without any prompting, Lyric moves towards the motorcycle and runs her hand along the gleaming chrome of the handlebars, walking in a slow circle, hips rolling, as she comes around and pauses in front of me.
She sits that perfect, round ass of hers on the leather seat and leans forward, unzipping my pants and looking up at me from under a fall of dark lashes. Without a word, I reach down and rub my right thumb along the scar across her cheek. It'll heal eventually, I'm sure, but for now, I don't mind. It's bloody badass.
Lyric stares up at me, her hands on the waistband of my jeans. Her eyes are bright and sharp when she turns her head to the side and takes my thumb between her lips, sucking it into her mouth and clamping it gently between her teeth. With a slow, careful motion, she pops the button on my jeans, drags my zipper down.
For the love of fucking Christ.
My head drops back, gaze sliding past the shelves of bike parts on the wall, straight up to the ceiling. For a split second there, I regret sending Sketch home because honestly, with those steady, sure hands of Lyric's gripping my cock at the base, stroking hard and smooth along the shaft, I could quite literally get caught with my pants down right now. If one of Clayton's punk-ass-for-hire bitches were to show up here, I'd be practically fucking helpless. I reassure myself by touching the side of my cut, feeling the hard bulge of my new revolver. It's a beaut, a Ruger GP100, that I picked up from that nearly botched shipment we got in from Seventy-Seven Brothers.
But then Lyric bites down hard on my thumb, drawing my attention back to her face, obliterating my brain. I'm completely enraptured as she leans forward, her ass up in the air, leaning against the bike more than she's sitting on it, and takes my cock in her mouth.
“Holy shit, Pint-Size.” I can see the curves of her hips, the way the corset squeezes in that perfect waist of hers. The lines of her thong sit like an upside down V on her lower back, drawing my attention to what little I can see of her ass. But it's enough. Oh, fuck, even that much is almost too much. I curl my fingers gently into Lyric's hair, tugging her closer, my lids fluttering as she draws her tongue along the sensitive underside of my dick, sliding her mouth off with a pop. One hand climbs up and under my shirt, encouraging me to take it all off. I shrug out of my cut first and pull my shoulder holster off. The white T-shirt comes next, fluttering to the cement floor in a messy pile.
“That's better,” Lyric says with a small smile. The look on her face is tight but determined; I can't read it. I'll be the first to admit, that bleedin' freaks me out. Pint-Size rises to her feet, her nails tracing their way up my midsection as I drop mine to her corseted waist and pull our bodies in close, leaning down for another round of kissing, her tongue sliding against mine. It's slow and sensual and wicked, the way she presses up against my rigid cock with her soft, curvy body, the way the moistness on my dick feels cool and hot at the same time.
As her hands trace up my arms, over my shoulders, curl around my neck, I can feel that ring burning like a brand into my flesh. She hasn't taken it off which is a good sign, yeah? I mean, it's got to be. If I lose this, if I lose Lyric to fucking politics and bullshit, that's it for me. It's club whores and empty sex the rest of my life. Sounds bloody awful, doesn't it? I ignore the thought, choosing instead to cup Lyric's full breasts, knead them with my fingers, eat up the soft breathy moans slipping between her moist lips.