Date Me, Mr. Archer

thirty four | a recipe for disaster

“Do you know people say that girls look ugly when they cry?” I joked, just to lighten the mood, maybe help her take her mind off the edge.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at me from my embrace. “And did you know that boys instantly become unattractive when they talk too much?”

A grin decorated my lips. “Yes.”

Her lips quirked up before she tampered it down with her teeth pressing into the cushion of her lower lip. “Then, shut up.” She said, her hands coming up from around my waist and settling on my abdomen, her pretty, manicured nails inching closer to the buttons.

“That particular fact doesn't apply to me,” I said, my voice the epitome of calmness even as a tsunami wrecked my nerves with every brush of her finger, nearing but not touching or unbuttoning any buttons on my button down.

“And why's that?” she quirked a sassy brow, her hand slyly riding down. . . .down, down, until they rested right above the waistband of my pants, teasing. “You're not a boy?”

My rough, calloused fingers brushed against hers as I picked her hand up and placed them right over my zipper, my semi-hard dick hardening, fighting against the confines of my pants to get free, craving her touch. Her eyes miraculously widened before I bent down and whispered over her ear, “I'm a man, Vi Darling. A man who's so affected by his woman, he gets hard at the mere mention of her.”

“I wonder,” she breathed, her voice silky smooth over the summer wind, her touch tentative at best as she traced the outline of my dick with her nails through my pants. “Who's her?”

“Not someone you know—” my breath got stuck in my throat when she wrapped her palm around me and squeezed my girth tight enough for it to hurt for a second before unbridled pleasure blared through.

“No?” she asked, starting to unwrap her hand but I pounded her with a growl.

One moment she was besides me, her hand on my cock and mine around her and the next, I had her on her knees as I worked my pants' buttons and slid them to my ankles, my boxers meeting the same fate.

With a smirk, my woman leaned forward and darted her tongue out, licking the pre-cum off my tip before sucking half my length in, hollowing her cheeks. Her hands remained on my thighs and mine wound around in her hair as I started thrusting upwards but the moment I hit the back of her throat, she spluttered, then pushed me out.

With a groan, I tugged her hair, pulling her face back to me but she looked up at me through her lashes, a seductive smirk enveloping her face as she slapped my hands away. Bending forward, she squirmed until she slid her dress upto her waist and pushed herself against my foot. A sound clawed at her throat as she rubbed her bare pussy — she'd gone commando, that little seductress — against my foot and I swallowed her moan by stuffing my cock into her open mouth.

“Look at how pretty you look,” I whispered, swiping my thumb beneath her eyes, wiping her tears of pleasure away. “On your knees, riding my leg with my cock fucking your pretty little mouth. In the open. Don't you like that?” Her sharp gasp echoed in the empty yard. I jerked my hips with precise thrusts until I was sure I hit the back of her throat. Her rubbing turned intense and I angled my foot so my ankle arched up, brushing against her clitoris and she almost fell back with the force. “Anyone could walk out right about now and would get a front row seat to how you suck my cock like a good little slut. How you were fucking made for me.”

Her breaths turned shallow and mine slowed with her. I rubbed my ankle in a rhythm, pressing against her clit before relieving the pressure until she groaned in frustration and removed her fingers from my thighs, guiding them between her legs. “Oh,” my voice reverberated in the silence, astonishment filling my tone. “But you like that. Being fucked in the open, where anyone can see you?”