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The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(36)

By:Cat Kelly


Briefly his hand left her cunt to the pearl thong and his long fingers stroked her bent leg. He slithered back on the bed to kiss the inside of her knees and when he did so his cock rubbed on the sheet. Little silk pleats tickled his engorged shaft, just as they would once he was inside her body. The head throbbed mercilessly.

Holding her knees apart with his hands he stared at her quivering pink pussy and the line of gleaming pearls that dripped over her neatly shaved vulva and down between her legs.

"Do you want to come now, Bryony?" he asked, watching her cunt tighten, the muscles of her inner thighs trying to pull her legs together. Her bottom rose off the bed and back down. The pearls jostled in their cozy niche. "Do you, Bryony?" he asked again, his voice husky, charged with raw need.

"Yes," she moaned.

"Ask me if you may." With one finger he pushed the fat bead deeper between her labia and he heard the exhale of a harsh breath between gritted teeth. He tugged the wet, sticky strand back out again and tapped it against her blossoming bud, then pulled it up so that it sank into the crack of her ass, made her hips lift again.

"Yes," she cried out. "Yes. Please may I come, Ben?"

He hitched forward to take in a hearty breath of her sexual fragrance and then he wound the pearl beads around his thumb, pulling the thong even tighter up into her crack. "Good girl. Here. Come for me, my love." With his pearl wrapped thumb pad he quickly diddled her clit until she jerked and the high heels of her red shoes rendered holes in the sheets.

"That's the way to go," he hissed leaning closer so she would feel his breath on her sex. As she exploded, creaming on his fingers, he too spilled where he lay, making a further mess of those once fine sheets.

They could add it to his bill, because he wasn't done yet.



* * * *



Bry stroked the hair back from his forehead and felt the perspiration. "No one has ever done the things for me that you do."

"Good." He kissed her lips. "And the feeling is mutual."

Her heart pulsed feebly. With his weight on her it was hard to take a full breath but she was starting not to mind. Sheathed with a condom, his cock was once again housed inside her, and that incomparable feeling of bliss made her limbs soft and useless. Living in her own romance novel, she sincerely hoped she wasn't turning into one of those too-stupid-to-live heroines. He could and had promised her nothing more than this. She'd agreed to nothing more than this.

But it began to feel like so much more.

The way he made love to her now was slow, gentle, but still possessive. Was there a part of her body he hadn't licked and kissed? She thought not.

Outside the glass sliding doors to the balcony, dawn light streaked across the sky like a spilled shot of Bailey's Irish Cream. They'd been awake most of the night, talking, kissing, holding one another. Forgotten the time, it seemed.

This was their last full day in paradise. Tomorrow morning everything would be a rush and before they knew it they'd be back in the grey of New York.

Not wanting to think of that she gave herself up to the moments left, let herself fall further under his spell.

Once she got back to routine there would be time enough to shake her head in despair and call herself a fool. Right now she was enjoying it too much.



* * * *



They spent a lazy day together, walking the beach and, in the afternoon, taking a taxi to Port Lucaya. Although it was a Sunday some stores and the straw markets were open. Everywhere they went he wanted to buy her things. She laughed.

"I told you I'm not for sale, Petruska. Put your wallet away." But she let him give her an authentic Bahamian straw hat, and when he wasn't looking she bought him a little dog made of shells. It was a tacky souvenir but it reminded her of a beloved mutt he had when he was young. She smiled to think of it placed on one of his dust-free, clutter-free, impersonal glass shelves. Where the hell would he put it that wouldn't look out of place in that show room overlooking Central Park? It would stick out like a sore thumb and he'd certainly never be able to forget the trip. Each time he saw it, he'd think of her.

Until, maybe one day, bits of shell would start to fall off it. He'd look at it and say, "Who the hell bought me that piece of trash?" Because all this was a faded memory.

They ate dinner in a quaint bar back in the West End and Ben told her all about the area's prosperous history of bootlegging and rum-runners. Naturally he appreciated the entrepreneur spirit and the idea of "getting one over" on authority. He really hadn't changed that much in the sixteen years she'd known him. In many ways he was still the loud-mouth, curly-headed boy who thought he had something to prove and believed that as long as he achieved the end he wanted any means were viable.