Erotic Fiction: What I Want

I don’t know him yet, but I want to.

I want to know how his chest feels pressed against mine, naked. How the rake of his hands will feel over my breasts, and how deep he’ll thrust his cock inside. I want the breath that plays over my face now to spill over me, raspy and hungry, as we fuck together somewhere seedy and dark—our bodies colliding with the desire we’ve felt since we met here, not a word needing to be said because the way we danced said it all.

At this moment, he clutches me to him. His fingers laced into my hair halfway through the last song, and I can feel the bulge he’s been harboring in his jeans for the better part of our dance. We haven’t broken apart since we gelled together, and this panting between us has nothing to do with the rhythm of our dance. It’s the beat of our longing, pounding and deep, filling us as we barely drift across the floor and I roll up my hips to feel him closer. I am wet for him, wet since I saw him at the bar, and I want him to know what that feels like, what indulgence he’ll find in me, needing and hot, waiting for when we will leave here.

B/W man's hands clutching breast of half clothed woman

Dmitrii Kotin ©123RF.com

As the next song starts, he kisses me. I still don’t know his name. In a past life, I wouldn’t want anyone to know that I’d come here to find someone, something, the perfect match for my lust in this moment. I wouldn’t want anyone to label me a slut, or any of those other words that drip from the tongue with so much scandal, even now. But to say I care about these things would be a lie, because my wants are mine to fuel, to breathe, to live. The touch of his tongue to mine is like fire, an inferno drawing us nearer, making the will to stay on this dance floor a quiet voice I cannot hear over the sound of my heart.

“You want to go somewhere?” I ask.

He nods; he is like me. His body knows what needs to happen, knows desires are the essence of life and meeting them, when they’re right, is what should be. And so we slip out of this place and away in a cab. We direct the driver to a shabby motel not five minutes away while we toy with buttons, zippers, and hems. We are silent as we take the hallway down to the room the receptionist granted us, a near closet at the base of the stairs that neither of us really glances at after we switch the lamp on inside.

Once the door snaps shut, I push him back against it. His fingers find the edges of my panties, shoving inside me while I bring my lips to his face. His kiss back is greedy, wild, his tongue so far in my throat I am gasping, my hand sliding against his belly and into his briefs. He is full and hard, throbbing against my touch, and his fingers in my cunt make it difficult to breathe. He lets me go to grab my shoulders, and he steers me to the bed. Then he sits me on this frumpy mattress while I unzip his pants and take him into my mouth. He moans when I swallow him deep—but this is just the start of it, what I want. I claw my fingers over his hips as I suck harder. Once he pushes me back and down, he climbs over me as I envisioned when we danced. His fingers are quick beneath my skirt, slipping past the soaked barrier of fabric to plunge into me, over and over, making me cry aloud.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and I fumble for my purse, writhing on his fingers as I fish the condom from inside. I hand it to him in a frenzied squirm because the craving inside me is so intense and hot. I don’t care anymore that we’re still clothed, that he is in me and thrusting deep before I take a breath, that I am moaning at how good this feels, at the rough scrape of his chin on mine when we kiss. He slides his fingers under my shirt, digging them into my sides as I draw up my knees, and I let him all the way inside. When I touch myself, he drives faster. The motion is hard enough to move me up on the bed, our sweat drenching our clothes and the tremor inside me becoming whole. Real.

It is the very thing I’ve wanted since we crashed together on that dance floor.

“Yes,” I moan, because it is washing over me, racking me. He bites down on my lip when I jerk up, coming so hard he must feel me squeezing him inside, urging him to join my bliss. He slides his hands around my shoulders, and he clutches me as he groans against my mouth.

“Fuck, yes, yes!”

When he comes, I suck in air, his air—the raspy, hungry breath I craved. And once he rolls away, we lay there, our bodies numb, our throats dry. Both of us are spent with the wants shared between us.

I feel him peering at me after a few minutes, his cheek on one hand while the other grabs my thigh.

“Was that good for you?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.”

Then I turn to him and smile.

“But I’ll want more.”

*

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