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nic6879

Paris Nights

It reminds her of their first night.

The crack of thunder, and lighting jagging across the sky; flashes of jolting brightness that illuminate the otherwise dark hotel room. Rain pouring, warmed by the late spring night, and the petrichor scent thick in the air. Heavy drops that splatter against the windows, jump from the cast-iron railing of the balcony, sluice along her back, dance over shoulders and down the length of her legs. The taste of rain on his lips and her hair drenched, wet heavy strands plastered to her neck and the side of her face.

His tongue curls into her mouth and she angles her head, allows him deeper, opening herself to him. Her leg slides up his calf, foot pressed against the cold wrought-iron of the railing for leverage as her thighs fall open against him, his length nudging between the apex of her thighs, hard, demanding. He pushes her against the balustrade and she hooks her arms over his shoulders, holding on, ready for him, yearning for his touch.

The city alive beneath them, late night traffic circling the roundabout and she doesn’t care, the risk of being seen just adding an extra kick to her senses, making her ache to be taken by him, hard and fast, loud. Their last night in Paris, before they leave for Florence, and who cares if anyone sees; let them see. She wants to shout her love for him from the rooftops sometimes, let the world see just how incredible, how amazing they are together. She feels undone and remade both, her skin alive, tingly all over, heat blooming in her midsection, consuming her with ferocious, almost desperate need.

She lifts her hips, writhes against him, now now now, and he groans into her mouth, his hand trailing between them to grab his length, his knuckles brushing her inner thigh as he guides himself inside her warmth. She sighs and it feels like relief when he fills her at last, and the angle isn’t quite right, barely allows them to move, and then suddenly it’s perfect, so so good, the barely-there thrusts of his hips, his hand digging into the cheek of her ass, pressing her tightly against him, holding her close, chests pressed together, skin to skin, his heartbeat racing against hers.

Her fingers curl into the strands of his hair, angling him to press his lips to her neck, and he sucks on her pulse point, teeth grazing her soft, sensitive skin while his length nudges her deep inside, in sharp, short strokes. Her muscles spasm, squeeze him and he groans against her neck, his muscles tightening as she feels him teetering on the brink of his orgasm.

She slides her hand between them, brushes over her clit, pressing hard, her fingertips caressing where they are joined, feeling the wet movement of their bodies coming together and he moans at the sensation of her touch, her name a plea humbled from his mouth to her skin.

“Come for me,” she urges him, squeezes her inner muscles; wants to feel him lose control, the jolts of his muscles when he falls apart for her, with her, the warmth of him within her, the uninhibited sounds from his lips. The sensations consume her, the quick rough strokes, his touch and hers, coming together as one.

“With you,” he groans, lips meeting hers in not-quite a kiss, mouth just open against her, their breath mingling and yes yes she promises as he thrusts again, once, twice, and then he halts, quakes in her arms, moaning his release into her mouth. The jolts of his length spin her over the edge with him, stars bursting behind her eyelids as she shouts her orgasm into the dark night of Paris.

The city of love, indeed.

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[not my gif; original post found here]

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Pornado #5