Page 48 of Catch of a Lifetime
My sofa was an enormous, sturdy block of furniture with exceptionally firm cushions. After the third replacement, I’d chosen one that looked like it could survive a rugby team having a homoerotic scrum on it. Then at least it would have a chance of surviving me and Dave.
Dave dropped me on it and dropped himself on top.
He straddled me, big thighs bunching on either side of my hips, and bent down to kiss the tip of my nose.
I pushed him away—he wassoweird about noses—and redirected his lips to where I wanted them. He obliged with a filthy, wet kiss—much more my style, thanks—and then pulled away to stare down at me.
He sat back on his heels and ran his hands over my chest, feathering light touches up along the ladder of my ribs. My lack of gills still fascinated him. He drew a finger over my torso back and forth a few times where gills would be if I had any, and sent me an unimpressed look before delicately pinching a rib between finger and thumb.
It didn’t stick outthatmuch.
“I already have Jerry on my case about my eating habits,” I informed him. “I don’t think I’m up for any more criticism today, thanks. Especially coming from someone who ran off and spent a week scoffing ninety percent of the fish in the North Sea.”
I was vaguely concerned that he’d caused an economic crisis.
Dave’s attention had moved on to my jeans which, along with my boxers, were still bunched at the tops of my thighs. He tugged them down to my knees, got distracted by my dick, and paused to stare. He settled his hands flat on my stomach and dragged them in to frame my entire groin, letting out a low, throbbing rumble of approval.
“It’s all for you,” I said, shooting for confident and ruining it by sounding breathless.
His lips were parted and he absently touched his tongue to the point of a fang, still staring.
“Dave,” I protested, throwing an arm over my eyes.
He sent out a little pulse of sound that shivered over my entire body but was mostly centred on my cock.
I panted and arched my hips.
As soon as my arse lifted from the cushions, he slid his palms under my buttocks and squeezed possessively.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, jeans all the way off. Get them off me. Come on.” I attempted to sit up and do it myself but he simply leaned in and bodied me back.
He shuffled about and dragged the jeans down to my shins, lost patience, ripped them down the centre seam, and tore them off.
I didn’t even care. Why would I? With my clothes finally out of the way, when Dave laid himself down over me, I felt him everywhere.
He moaned with approval and flexed into me, working his body in a long, slow ripple.
He was watching my face. I could tell, even though my arm was still covering my eyes.
Dave moved over me the way only he could, using his muscles to massage every single inch of me that was exposed to him. His strokes were rhythmic and strong, driving the air out of me in soft puffs. But they weren’t enough.
I squirmed about and managed to hook a leg around his hip. Yeah. Yeah, that was better. I could pull myself in now, tighter, closer, work my arse and rub?—
He chuckled and unhooked me.
“Argh. Dave.”
He crooned something back at me, never stopping his slow, pulsing movements.
“Give me more. I need more. Let’s go.”
He traced a light whisper of a touch along the arm I still had over my eyes. I reflexively clamped it tighter, even while I was telling myself not to be ridiculous. Dave had unravelled me again and again. He’d seen me lose control before. For god’s sake, he saw me lose control on a daily basis. Every time he fucked me, I lost it.
I didn’t know why…
No.
I knew.
