Buying the Virgin novel Chapter 20

Michael’s breathing is slow and steady but deepening and his fingers twist into my hair, his grip tightening on me.

Abruptly, he pulls away. “It’s wonderful,” he says, bending to kiss the top of my head. “But I don’t want to blow off in five minutes. We have all evening.”

Un-noticed, my Master has slipped in from the kitchen and is stretched out by us, sprawled in an armchair by the fire, long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. A wine glass in his hand, he watches us, smiling; the flicker of the flames through the deep red wine casting amber and ruby shadows over the walls.

Lying down, I stretch like a cat on the fur rug, the light of the flames dancing over my skin, Michael joins me on the fur, stroking my back. His expert fingers ripple up my muscles, probing, investigating.

“You’ve been spending too much time on a computer,” he says. “Your shoulder muscles are knotted. Lie on your front. Let me work them out for you.”

I turn over and Michael straddles me. “I’ll do this properly later, but I need you on a bed for that. For now, I’ll just work on those muscle kinks.”

He is right. As his fingers dig into the knots, kneading them out, I grimace and wince. “Serves you right,” he says. “If you have poor posture or a bad position at your desk, this is the result. Have you got a proper office chair and desk? Your computer at the correct height?”

“I’ve been making do a bit,” I admit. “I wanted the money to stretch out.”

Michael is silent, and I see my Master pursing his lips.

Michael rises, disengaging from me, and slapping me on the rump, then he flips me over onto my back. His strength always surprises me. He’s not particularly tall but is stocky and powerfully built, broad-shouldered and muscular. He turns me over with no obvious effort, sending a rush of arousal through me.

Looking up from my bed of fur, Michael is kneeling to one side of me, my Master behind him, still lounging in his chair. Both are watching me and I feel I should give them something to watch.

Holding the gaze of first one, then the other, I stroke my breasts, cupping and caressing, massaging the smooth pale skin. Tracing the curves with my fingers, I outline my soft white mounds, circling my nipples, now beginning to stand proud, hard little buds, rosy in the amber light.

Arching my back, I semi-part my knees, inviting Michael in. His head tilts, eyes on me as smiling, he unbuttons his shirt and cuffs. Fascinated, I watch the play of the candles on the contours of his muscles, gleaming with a fine sheen of perspiration.

Still standing above me, looking down, he unbelts his jeans, releasing his cock from where it is straining for freedom.

Kneeling down, he parts my knees further, settling between them, then his strong hands ripple over my stomach and breasts. Leaning, he kisses my belly and breasts, taking the nipples lightly between his teeth, nibbling gently and swiping around with his tongue.

It sends a rush of heat through me, and moisture breaks from my pussy. Raising my hips, arms outstretched, reaching for my Golden Angel, I beckon him in, wanting him inside me, wanting him to fill me.

Glancing sideways, I see my Master, still watching, his expression solemn, but with the trace of a smile at the corners of his eyes, his dark hair picking up auburn highlights in the golden light. He takes a sip from the glass, and unmoving, continues to watch.

Michael covers me, enfolding me with arms and body, his cock nudging against my swelling pussy lips, but not entering me. Instead, he teases my warming folds, rubbing against my engorging clit, arousing me further.

My breathing is becoming more rapid. The scent of Michael’s warm skin and of my own growing arousal mingle into a honeyed perfume of lust and love and erotic togetherness.

I begin to pant, my hips to quiver. “Please,” I say. “Please. I want you inside me.”