Sex Scene Championship 2017 : Karen Stivali vs Dakota Gray #SSceneC2017 @karenstivali @dakota_writes

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.” Oliver’s voice shook, and the sound of his doubt reached my soul.“Christ. Is that what you think? That I don’t want you? Because wanting doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about you. Crave. Need. I don’t think a word exists that explains how much I want you.”

Something between a sigh and groan escaped him. His fingers trembled as he stroked my cheek, and I shivered from head to toe in response to his touch. His other hand cupped the back of my head, massaging the tense muscles in my neck.

“So what are we going to do about it?”

The whispered question hung in the air between us, sweet and ripe and too tempting to resist. I leaned closer, savoring the anticipation for every last second I could stand it, then brushed my lips on his. Mother. Of. Christ. Heat surged through me in a rippling wave. I kissed him again.

In my fantasies when I kissed Oliver, it was a frantic, frenzied, ravenous devouring. Rough and hot and full of pent-up desire. But when my mouth actually landed on his, not one of those things mattered more than the fact that I wanted to savor him. Anything beyond a light brushing of our lips would have been too intense. As it was, my cock pulsed each time I made contact.

Oliver didn’t seem to be in a rush either. He seemed perfectly content to let me take my time. Unable to wait another second to taste him again, I dragged my tongue across the swell of his lower lip. His happy noise corresponded with a hip swivel that sent his cock sliding against mine. Two layers of briefs and denim did nothing to mute the sensation, which was enhanced by my brain’s willingness to provide an immediate and vivid montage of that cock naked and erect.

Licking my way into his mouth took a degree of patience I didn’t know I possessed. What I did know was I didn’t want to rush any of this. I’d wanted it—all of it, all of him—so long and so badly. More than I ever could have admitted to him or myself. And now that I had him, right there, warm and sweet and real, I wanted to take my time.

His tongue met mine for a tentative swirl that sent our hips rocking in synch again. The sweet, pure flavor of him was like a drug I knew might be addicting but had a high so irresistible, I was willing to take the risk. I explored his mouth, aware of every single response—fingers slipping through my hair, breath hitching when I gave a light suck, and that swivel—Jesus Christ, that swivel of his hips had me imagining him in every position known to man and a few that may have been physically impossible but seemed awfully fucking tempting in theory.

Oliver’s soft groan lured me out of fantasy and into the reality of his tongue stroking mine. Gripping his hip, not wanting to risk losing one square centimeter of contact between our bodies, I inched him backward a few feet until he was leaned against the fridge. The cool metal grazed my knuckles as I raised the back of his T-shirt. He hissed, arching away from the cold and into me.

“Fuck.”

I breathed the word into his mouth, and he answered with something that sounded enough like “Yes” to make my heart skip a beat. Magnets and photos scattered as I pressed him harder against the refrigerator door and his tongue resumed its dance with mine.

Need hummed through me, and the deeper we kissed the more I realized it wasn’t need for sex or contact, it was need for him. My fingertips tingled as I moved a shaky hand over the contours of his face. The face I’d spent the past month memorizing but somehow saw more clearly now than all the times I’d studied it with my eyes.

My brain filtered out every sensation that didn’t involve Oliver. His taste. His smell. His rasping breaths. His fingertips massaging my scalp. I pulled away, needing to look at him, to process the visual along with everything else.

Disheveled hair, flushed cheeks, eyes wild, pupils a mile wide, lips wet and swollen. He looked as wrecked as I felt, and all we’d done was kiss. I tugged at his shirt, and he raised his arms, letting me slip it over his head. It fluttered to the ground as we reached for each other’s waistbands.

I’d never been so grateful not to be wearing a belt, because fumbling with his was more than enough of an obstacle. Steadying my hands took serious effort, but I got it undone and not a second too soon because once he got my fly undone and shoved my pants past my hips I was no longer capable of any thoughts.

Desire consumed me.

I don’t remember stepping out of pants or even moving back toward each other. I just remember the impact. His mouth on mine, my hand braced against the fridge, my erection sliding against his. Jesus. Smooth, hot, slick. The rumble in my throat echoed in my ears, filling the room with the sound of our lust.

It occurred to me that we could go to my room, my bed, hell, even the couch, but I couldn’t stop humping against him long enough to really consider which location would be best. His pants and whimpers weren’t doing anything to unscramble my brain. I reached between us, roughly circling both our cocks and trying to coordinate our movements. So much heat. The air, his body, his cock, each thing incrementally hotter than the next.

I groaned into his mouth, feeling precome stream across my knuckles, adding to the slick heat as we bucked together. Holy hell. Maybe we should head for some furniture before one of us passes the fuck out.

Oliver didn’t seem to want to move. He gripped my neck harder, kissing me with renewed determination. I breathed his breath, keeping up with both his manic tongue and the increasingly purposeful thrusts he was making in my hand. The muscles in my stomach flooded with warmth, and my thighs shook. Ready didn’t begin to describe how I felt. I needed to come. Hard. Soon.

“Fuck.” The word came out of Oliver as a whisper, but I felt it in every inch of my body.

“Yeah.” I pressed my forehead to his. Knowing we were both gazing down at the frantic gyrations of our cocks pushed me right to the brink. “Can’t hold off.”

“Don’t.” He widened his stance, hips moving faster, increasing the friction. And I was gone.

Cue full-body explosion. No exaggeration. Everything from my scalp to my toes tingled like I’d somehow managed to excite every single nerve in my body. Semen jetted out of me with such force, I convulsed against Oliver, shooting all over him, myself, and the door of the damned fridge.

Wordless sounds poured from him as he continued thrusting against me, pumping his cock against my palm like his life depended on it, then erupting in a fevered gush. His mouth found mine, wet and sloppy, as our tongues tangled, breaths ragged, come landing in warm splats on my thighs.

Oliver’s breathing slowed along with his tongue. He closed with a sweet, lazy kiss before pulling back, hair wild, eyes even more swirly than usual, with a look behind them I hadn’t seen before. Satisfaction? Desire? Whatever it was he wore it well. It was sexy as fuck, and I didn’t want to look away.

Kennedy doesn’t want the good guy when we fuck. She wants the Duke that bends her over a desk, spanks her in a kitchen and will come in her mouth on demand. I turn my face into her palm to place a kiss in her soft, small hand. There’s the bite of a callous from working with paper day in, day out. Clasping her hand, I guide it to my throat. I add pressure and watch her expression.

I can see the moment she fully understands what I’m asking her to do. I drop my hand. A second later she rests her cheek against mine.

“You’re still hard.”

“You’re still breathing.”

Her chuckle is rough as she shifts again to lay her forehead is against mine. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I squeeze her middle, trying to play off the disappointment. “Okay.”

Her fingers seem to dig into me as she brushes her fingertips along my face. “Can I like squeeze your balls instead? Really hard.”

I take her face in my hands, a laugh fighting its way out, and kiss her. She moans, falling into our mouths’ mating like it’s a salvation. I slouch lower then rock up into her. “Yeah, you can do that.” My insides tighten. “I’d like that too.”

She rolls her hips, and I pull back my head to bite down on my lip. It’s not what I need, but I’ll take it. Fuck, I almost convince myself it’s all that I need the harder I sink my teeth in.

Her sigh washes over me. She stops moving to run her thumb over the bite marks I’ve left on my lip. “Show me.”

“No.”

Kennedy clenches around me. Instinctively I thrust into her.

“You want it,” she murmurs and it tangles into a moan when I stroke inside her again. She puts her hand on my throat. There’s no tremble in it, but I hold her gaze to see if she’ll back down.

She puts her mouth to mine. “Show me.”

I place my hand over hers and once again guide her to close her fingers around my throat with enough pressure to make my heart kick with excitement. “You can’t hurt me.”

Her gaze softens. “Saying it doesn’t make it true.”

“You won’t.” With the weight of her hand on the hollow of my throat, my dick pulses. “Keep fucking me.”

I squeeze tighter and tighter until all I can feel is my pulse throb throughout my body, Kennedy’s pussy wet and snug around me. My world shrinks to those sensations.

My dick swells, gets harder than granite. The throb ringing through my body is deeper, sharper. It hurts. So fucking good. I squeeze tighter until the thud of my heart seems to suspend. I can’t think of the parts I cut out of me. I can’t remember what weak is and why I should avoid it. I’m now that next slow thud.

It’ll come and so will I. I loosen her hand so I can catch enough breath to gasp, “Tits. I want to come on your tits.”

Without argument or questions, she’s between my knees and pushing her tits together. In the back of my mind I have so many goddamn questions. The Kennedy I fucked blushed at the thought of dirty talk and catching my come with her mouth. This Kennedy doesn’t blink when I tell her I want to come on her tits after a little bit of breath play.

The next heartbeat hits and the thoughts turn into a haze. I’m too goddamn close to linger on anything but the way the tip of my cock darkens. Swirling my thumb over the head and slit, I coax myself to the very edge. My fist is tight. Slicked with my precome. She leans forward, brushing her shoulders against my legs. There’s just a roar in my head as I slip my dick between the crease of her tits.

Everything centers on how hard her nipples are, how her breath catches, and how the white of my come against her flushed skin looks like depraved art. She moans for it.

I know. I know. She’s likely doing that just to make the moment better. This does nothing for her physically. The fact she would still moan so I can come, to hold the fantasy—fuck me.

I paint her tits pale and get the pleasure of her tongue when I’m spent. I’m not myself when I murmur, “Rub me into your skin. Don’t shower. I want to smell myself on you every time I take a deep breath until we get home.”

“Is that what you need?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

She kisses me, and I know she’ll do what I ask.

I can feel the depth of that. It’s better than her hand on my throat.

But I know she’s going to ask why I need it. She’s going to question everything about me. I’m not going to be a good guy and she’ll run away.