Page 62 of Sunrise Arrows

“Yeah, baby, you are,” he agrees, palming my breasts. “Mine to use; mine to fuck; mine to love. And I’m yours, aren’t I?”

Quickly, I nod my head—my back arching as he pinches my nipples—and claim him right back. “Mine.”

“Yours.”

“Ours.”

“Ours,” he repeats, letting my poor nipples go with a sharper pinch and a tug that makes me gasp and groan.

Archer sweeps his fingers down the center of my body. They circle my belly button and dance from the protrusion of one hip bone to the other in quick, broad strokes that send tingles down the short distance to my pussy. His fingers follow them down and trace along the crevice of my thighs and over my soft mound, whispering at the top of my spread lips.

When I think he’s finally going to touch me where I need him, his hand disappears and comes back on the outside of my thighs. He drives me into a babbling, begging madness as he teases from my hip to my knee and back up, slowly making his way to my inner thighs.

“Archer… please,” I sob. “Touch me.”

“I am, Shortcake.”

I frantically shake my head no, my face screwing up tight as another pass leaves a phantom touch between my legs.

“I need you.”

“Where? Where do you need me?”

I try to lift my hips up to guide him but it only serves to draw his hand away when he’d come so close.

“Tell me, Tinsley. I want to hear your pretty voice tell me where you want my hand… my fingers… my mouth… my dick. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“My pussy,” I plead in a hurry. “Touch my pussy; play with my clit; finger me; fuck me with your tongue; fill me with your cock and cum; something, anything,please!”

“You sound so sweet begging for me,” he murmurs almost devilishly. “I could get used to hearing it. But—” He breathes, cupping his hand between my legs and drawing out a pathetically cried, “Yes,” from me. “I hate leaving you wanting for me. I’d much rather hear you beg me to stop—that your pussy can’t take anymore—than to know it’s suffering without me, or worse, because of me.”

The relief is immediate. No sooner has the last, roughened syllable fallen from his lips than does he begin playing me to orgasm. His thumb plucks at my hard, swollen clit, and his fingers strum along my walls. And like he wanted, I all but sing for him with lyrics of, “Yes. More. Right there. Don’t stop,” growing higher and higher in pitch.

“That’s it, baby; soak my hand with your sweetness. Get me nice and messy so I can cover my dick with it and then fill you with my cum.”

I blindly pat around for his other hand, needing just a little more from him to get me there. Archer’s so incredibly attuned with me and my body, however, that he knows what I need before I can ask, demand, or beg for it.

His other hand snakes up from where he’s been keeping my bucking hips pinned to him and wraps it around my throat. His large hand rests there for a moment, long fingers coming to lay over my pulse. Then when he feels me inhale, he squeezes, stealing my breath and shoving me over into a state of euphoria. He starts to let go and I’m quick to cover his hand with mine, urging him to stay as my pussy rapidly starts to flutter and contract, my vision going into a blissful haze. Hand over his, I encourage him to squeeze just a little more.

The additional pulse he gives me hurtles my body into a rushing orgasm. It’s so intense, he has to clamp his hand over my mouth to smother my scream as I squirt for him, dripping cum down his wrist and soaking his jeans and the leather of the club chair.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he praises, slowing his tandem work of my clit and pussy until I’m sagging against him, struggling to catch my breath, lost in delirium.

When the warm haze finally clears, Archer has released the lap belt and brought me down to the floor where my knees are cushioned by a pillow from the bed. My body is sloped, my arms stretching with a soft bend into the seat. He’s tying the nylon of the lap belt around my wrists, and when he’s done, he yanks on the slack to tighten his knot so I’m kept secure to the chair.

“Does it feel okay?”

“Perfect,” I smile, looking up at him through my lashes.

“Good.”

He walks back around, the button and zipper of his jeans undone, and kneels behind me checking my position. Not satisfied, he taps my hip, and I rock back onto the balls of my feet, freeing the pillow. When I lower my knees again, he gently drags me back until I’m stretched and my ass popped out.

“You look beautiful,” he croons, caressing my skin.

With the pillow back in place, he comes up behind me and grips my hips, pulling my body back into his as he thrusts several times.

“Still good?”

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