of feasting

There is something to the taste of bared skin.

The back of your neck is smooth, a cool expanse quickly warmed by passing lips.

Hunger is a cusp, a ledge over unsettled waters.

A deft unsnapping, unzipping, and unclothing of hips as jeans pool at your feet. One hand at your throat, a warm grip tilting your head back against my shoulder while my other presses into your hip and your ass nestles back into me.

“You make me hunger,” I say, words left against your exposed throat. My fingers rest atop the edge of your undergarments, hooking to draw them down an inch. “I am going to open you.” Another couple inches, fingertips brushing the skin between hip and thigh. “And then I am going to devour you.” An inch more, fabric now mid-thigh; impatient, I drag it the rest of the way off.

I can feel you shiver as my knee parts the back of your legs.

“And I’m going to do it right here.” I press you forward, onto all fours in front of me, the sight of your bared curves making me more than just hungry.

It makes me ravenous.

I slide to my own knees, both hands now resting on your hips. I lean closer, breath tickling the small of your back; I leave a kiss there, at the base of your spine, and then take my time in tracing the curve of your buttocks downward to your parted thighs.

The first taste is slow. I feel you lower your chest to the ground, opening yourself further as I nuzzle, tongue gently pressed against your slick heat. Gently, that is, at first. But I demand more, pressing closer, burying myself against you with intent until you find yourself moving against my face.

Abruptly, I straighten to kneel behind you, firm grip dragging you back until I am inside you, driving deep, your ass hitting my thighs. I pull back to drive deeper, again, and again.

The growl you hear is more wolf than man.

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