Some Seconds are Far From Sloppy

Phoebe’s mouth covered his at once, soft red lips and a larger tongue already moving against his own, and the force of it left him making a sound that never quite became a word. Her hands stayed on his shoulders, holding him where she wanted him while the stream moved around their legs. He was bare, and the soaked tank top with ehr huge breasts pressed against his chest when she leaned in, water running from the fabric onto his skin. Her boots were full of it. She tilted her head and pushed deeper, copper hair slipping forward to brush his wet shoulder, her tongue stroking his with a slow attention that made it difficult to keep track of anything else. One hand left his shoulder, dragged down his bare chest, and settled at his waist, fingers digging in just hard enough that he felt every point of contact.

Drawing back only far enough to speak, her mouth still touching his, she left the red on her lips looking exactly as it had before she started.

“One hundred and sixty-two minutes,” Phoebe said, breath hot against Matt. “I would rather spend them on you than on asking whether this is all right.”

The kiss resumed slower, her tongue staying against his, and his hands found the sides of her tank top because they needed somewhere to go. The wet cloth stuck to her under his fingers. Pressing closer put the hard points of her against his bare chest, warm through the fabric, and the contact went straight through him. He was already hard. Walking him backward through the water did not stop until his legs met the bank and he sat down on the wet grass without having decided to, the ache of it impossible to ignore once there was nothing between him and the air.

Coming down with him, Pheobe set one knee on either side of his hips, boots still dripping onto his thighs, and because the kiss did not break he had to tip his head back to keep her mouth on his. Her weight settled over him there. The first movement of her hips dragged the soaked fabric of her shorts along the length of him, slow enough that he felt every inch of it, and the heat of her through the wet cloth made his breath catch against her mouth. A second pass came down with more weight and ground him between her and his own stomach, drawing a small, pleased sound out of her. The third was slower still. Warmth and clinging fabric marked where she was wet against him, and his hands, which had ended up on her thighs, felt the muscle work under his palms each time she rolled her hips forward. Nothing in the motion suggested she meant to stop.

When she finally pulled away, the lipstick was still perfect, her chest was rising hard, and her hips had not quite settled.

“Better,” she said. “Now you look like someone I caught instead of someone I am negotiating with.”

Her hands went to his bare chest, warm and sure, and she dragged them down slowly, thumbs brushing his ribs, until they settled at his hips. She did not take hold of him yet. She just held there, looking at him like she was deciding which part to take first, and the pressure of her palms was already making it difficult to think about anything else.

"You can tell me to slow down," Phoebe murmured, her hands resting against his hips as she studied his face. She seemed quite prepared to wait for an answer, although the hopeful smile tugging at her lips suggested she had a very different one in mind. "Or," she added, leaning closer with an enthusiasm that was becoming terribly distracting, "you could put those hands of yours on me. I'd much rather have another kiss."

Matt tried to find an answer, but Phoebe's latest actions had done precious little for his concentration. With her hands resting on his hips, her face so close to his and that wonderfully eager expression still waiting for him, he was having considerable difficulty remembering what he'd intended to say. Judging by where most of his blood seemed to be heading, his brain was unlikely to receive much assistance. That was rather inconvenient, considering how much trouble his mouth had already caused him today.

Still, she'd given him a choice, and putting his hands on her was beginning to sound like an excellent idea. His fingers found the closely shaved side of her head, drawing an appreciative smile from him at the unexpected softness, while his other hand slipped beneath the raised hem of her tank top to settle against her hip. Phoebe answered with a delighted little sound, leaning eagerly into his touch, and when she bent to kiss him again, Matt found himself pulling her closer without the slightest inclination to argue.

Phoebe’s mouth found his again as soon as his hands settled on her, and the pleased sound she made against him turned into a low hum when his fingers tightened on her hip. The kiss stayed deep for a few breaths before she drew back just far enough to get at her own shorts, one hand leaving his waist to work the button while the other stayed on him. Wet fabric resisted her, so she shoved it down her thighs with a short, impatient motion, kicked one boot free of the leg, and pushed at his knees until they bent up toward his chest.

“Like that,” Phoebe said, and settled over him between his raised legs, one knee planted on the wet grass to either side of his hips.

As Pheobe settled over Matt,the slick heat of her cunt met the length of his cock at once, a slow rock dragging her along him until his breath left him. Reaching down to line him up took her a moment, the angle not quite right the first time, and she adjusted with a small, focused frown before the head of him caught against her. The eager curve of her mouth was still there, though her fingers were less steady than the rest of her had been.

“There,” she said, a little breathless already, and began to sink onto him.

She took him in stages, tight and hot around him, a little, then more, and with his legs folded he felt every inch of the descent. His hands clamped on her thighs. She paused when her breath caught, then eased down until she was seated fully against him, his cock buried in her, the cold grass under his back the only cool thing left in the contact. For a moment she only stayed there, chest rising, the perfect red of her lips parted, watching his face.

Movement came as a slow rise that pulled almost off him, then a controlled drop that seated her again and drove the air out of his lungs. His knees held up, the angle left him taking what she gave, and when he tried to thrust she put a hand on his chest and kept him where he was, leaning over him so the copper hair fell forward and her mouth could find his between the strokes. Each downward press ground her against him, wet heat and the flex of her thighs under his palms, and the pace never left her.

“Stay with me,” Phoebe said against his lips, and the next descent was deeper, slower, her hips rolling at the bottom so the pressure dragged over the most sensitive part of him and pulled a rough sound out of his throat. She smiled at that, bright and delighted, and did it again.