Page 8 of Ruger
“Oh my god,” Marigold moans, her grip on my shoulders tightening as she squeezes her thighs around my head.
I hum in response, and her body quivers as the vibrations course through her. It imbues me with a sense of confidence.This must be how guitar players feel when they’re killing a solo on stage. I’m a virtuoso when it comes to Marigold’s body.
Needing more of her reactions, needing to make her fall apart on my tongue, I shift my attention upward. The second that my tongue grazes her clit, she makes a wanton, desperate sound, and writhes beneath my touch. It’s incredible.
My cock twitches painfully in my jeans when my tastebuds are flooded with another rush of her juices. I’m working her closer to the edge. And, from the reactions I’m pulling from her, I can assume that I’m going to give this gorgeous girl her first orgasm.
Marigold starts to ride my face from the position she’s in on the edge of the counter. She whimpers and whines. She practically crushes my head, and I’m wearing her thighs as earmuffs. It’s obvious that she doesn’t know what to do with herself, and that only makes her hotter.
With a groan, I close my lips around her clit. I give the bundle of nerves a few experimental flicks of my tongue. She nearly screams, and, smirking against her skin, I suck on her lightly. Her reaction is instantaneous.
Her back arches, and she pushes herself even harder against my mouth. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and she starts babbling. I can’t make out her words, and I doubt I would be able to even if she wasn’t blocking out the sound of the world around me with her soft, supple thighs.
I desperately want to have her like this all the time. She’s already such a beautiful, gentle, smart woman, but when she’s in the throes of pleasure, a few short strokes away from falling over the edge and cumming on my tongue… she’s perfect, the kind of woman that men go to war for, write poetry about, and build wonders of the world for.
I’m only proven more correct when Marigold lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a yelp, moan, and whine. She cums beautifully, and it’s almost like she’s putting on a performance. Her thighs flex, her grip gets harder, and she throws her head back in ecstasy.
I watch her the entire time, maintaining my efforts and observing as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. It isn’t until she starts pushing me away and gasping in an almost pained tone that I have mercy on her. Still, I’m slow to remove my mouth from her clit, leaving a line of wet kisses down her thigh before I get to my feet and pull her into a filthy kiss.
When we part, she stares at me with her mouth slightly open, her lips shiny from her own juices. She’s the picture of sin, hotter than anything I’ve ever seen in a nudie magazine. I find it really fucking hard to believe that I have her all to myself.
“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” she says, out of breath, voice ragged from the way she was screaming.
Again, assuming something is very different from hearing it confirmed out loud. Learning that I’m responsible for giving Marigold her first ever orgasm makes my lust so intense that I nearly buckle over. I need her.Now. And there’s so much that I can show her.
“I can make you feel even better,” I practically growl.
“Please,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.
That’s all the permission I need to pick her up. Once I have a good grip on her, I turn and carry her out of the kitchen to my bedroom.
Chapter 6
Marigold
When Ruger places me in the middle of his bed with a surprising amount of care, I’m still reeling from the orgasm I just had. While I’ve never had sex, I’m not completely ignorant. I’ve read books, and I went to public high school. I was bound to pick up something.
I just never knew it could be likethat.
Alone in my room, I used to explore my body. I made myself feel good, but I guess I hadn’t given myself an orgasm. Truthfully, I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad that Ruger is the first person to ever make me feel like that. He’s the first person to make me feel so many things – it only feels right that he’s my introduction to that kind of intense pleasure.
“I’m going to take your dress off,” he tells me, and I’m snapped back into reality.
His hands surprise me with their gentleness once again. His palms slide along my rib cage, and it’s obvious to me that they’re normally used for manual labor. I shiver at the sensation of callouses from long days of hard work against my sensitive skin. He lingers for a moment, either preparing me for what he’s about to do or savoring the moment.
I gasp when he tosses the garment aside in a split-second decision to pull my dress over my head and throw it onto the floor. Then, after giving me a quick once over, his hands arebehind my back, unclasping my bra and sending it to join my dress, wherever that landed.
Once I’m completely naked, Ruger stands back and admires my body. Part of me wants to cover up and hide away, but I resist the urge. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, not when I’m with Ruger. This is the first time I’ve seen him in years, but I trust him.
And I want him. All of him. So badly.
After a few seconds, I’m rewarded for my patience and willingness to let him look. Maintaining eye contact as he does it, Ruger pulls his soft, slightly-wet t-shirt from his body. Almost immediately, my eyes dart down to his strong, chiseled form.
He’s not a body builder by any means, but I think I prefer the way his body looks. There’s definition in his arms, but his abs are hidden under a layer of skin. This is a man who feeds himself and builds all of his muscle from practical tasks. That body isfunctional, and I feel a rush of wetness between my legs at the thought.
I’m not given much longer to admire his chest and biceps because he reaches for his belt buckle. Holding my breath, I brace myself for the main event. I know that he has to be big – I felt his hardness pressing against me as he carried me in here.
It’s just that this will be the first time I’ve ever seen a man fully naked in person. And I like this man more than I’ve liked any man. Ever.
