… As the taste of her lips tormented, Jake allowed his atavistic male mind to run wild. He craved to love his wife completely, for he knew how much she relished sex in the forest. Don’t forget the basement—as if he could—where she would fasten him to a specialized bed with those straps and buckles, and worship his body, massaging, adoring every inch of him. Her stroking hands, her mouth and tongue, would usher him to the edge, and stop, pressure building inside him … until, at last, she would allow his eruption while she squealed in delight, aiming him wherever she wanted. Then she would tenderly lick him clean, softly moan-purring with lustful decadence.
When it was his turn to reciprocate, to worship her body, he would—thoroughly. With her legs splayed wide, her wrists willingly shackled to the posts, he would luxuriate in lapping, flicking his tongue while she squirmed and writhed and shuddered and groaned and squealed in her restraints as if he was exorcising some sort of otherworldly entity from her very soul.
Other positions flashed through his mind.
Oh, with her perfect butt in the air, back bowed, chest to the mattress. How she would give him an over-the-shoulder mewling request to fill her … and how those liquid blue eyes would cloud with indulgence, her eyelids flagging, as he slowly … sank … deep into her. That recollection forced a low rumble to sound in his throat. However, he now compelled himself to settle for tasting her neck while she tilted her head to the side, breathing heavy under his lips, gasping and giddy.
Want grew. Need arrived in force.
It was the moan, the long languorous moan in Amy’s throat that threatened to rob the last shreds of his willpower.