She's afraid for the wet, salty stain her pussy lips will likely leave on the sofa. Crysta shifts in her seat and wishes fleetingly that her skirt wasn't so short, that she wasn't so aroused and most of all, that her brazenness hadn't prompted her to abandon her knickers at her rented apartment. Marcel chuckles into her mouth, feeling her shift, wondering at her sudden anxiousness. Crysta can hear his mirth through her lusty haze and it grounds her, pulling her back to the present. Marcel's sensual assault on her mouth continues. His warm tongue continues to slip in between her lips exploring and titillating her sensitive, wet skin.
“Please, please?”
She whispers into their embrace, against the heat of his kisses, in the sharp air she can gasp. She pulls away for a reluctant moment. The question goes unfinished. Marcel examines her fine features. Her cheeks are flushed and her swollen kiss-bruised lips shine with their mutual saliva. His gaze moves to her telling, desirous pools. Her green eyes question him.
“Not here?”
Marcel asks the question softly but he makes no move to remove them from the busy foyer. Crysta holds herself stiffly, unwilling to plead. There is an ache in the soft hollow between her thighs. Her fingers itch to run through Marcel's glossy, neat hair. She extends a hand, touching his thigh, ignoring the shot of carnal excitement that darts about her body.
“I think I should go.”
Crysta knows the tone of her voice belies her need.
Marcel leans in. At first she thinks it is to kiss her.
“Don't you want me?”
His voice is a whisper, brushing past her ear. She is but is unable to read the expression on his face. When he speaks again his voice is normal.
“You're right. You go ahead, I'll catch you up. I need to make my excuses to the Board.”
He dips his head and kisses her lightly. Crysta gets up, anxiously glancing at her seat, where a small stain is beginning to spread. She hears Marcel's laugh as he strides away from her. His cruelty stabs at her. How could he know it troubled her? He doesn't look back. How could he be so insensitive? Quickly, she makes her way out the glass revolving doors and back to the apartment.
Once through the doors Crysta takes off her clothes, throwing them carelessly over a chair. She pads about the apartment, reveling in her nakedness, making the choice not to 'gift wrap' her body for him. She dislikes the scratchy bras and tiny lacy panties that are meant to be seductive. They leave her cold. Instead, she paces, enjoying the feel of a cool breeze on the fine hairs of her belly. Like skinny dipping, she thinks and opens the balcony door. There is nothing in the rooms but white, sterile surfaces and clean, crisp order.
Finally, Crysta takes a seat on the floor beside the immaculate bed. Before her is a full wall of mirrors. They are the sliding doors that house the closet.
She sits with her knees bent, feet flat on the floor. Her rich dark hair tumbles in unkempt waves past her shoulders. Crysta watches herself, first running a slender hand through her Hispanic locks. She opens her legs. The peach of her pussy is swollen and glistening. Marcel knows too well how to bring her to aching arousal with his kisses and caresses. She is tired now, from being teased. Tight, agitated and fit to burst.
Her reflection cups a breast, feeling the soft weight. Next she licks her thumb and toys with the brown nub of her nipple. She leans back into the side of the mattress, plunging an eager few fingers into her wetness. Crysta begins to stroke, gently playing with her labia. She takes care to run her fingers across the fine hairs at her cleft, and then back into her secret place. Crysta shivers.
She lets the air escape from her lips in one rapid breath. In the silence of the room her own need is the only sound. As she elicits pleasure, experimentally, she increases the volume of her tiny gasps. Her aural adventure succeeds in adding warmth and wetness to the lush playground beneath her fingers.
She strokes and watches, her lips parted. The blood-flow to her face increases. She looks hot and ready. Now stroking is not enough. Crysta turns her body, facing her round arse to the mirror and her face to the mattress. Her chin almost touches the top of the sheets.
She squats on her heels, leaning around to try and see her pussy. She wants to see her flower and it's pleasing reaction to stimulus. Crysta dips a finger into her vagina, wiggles. She likes it a lot. She inserts two. The mirror-play is quickly forgotten. Soon she's on her knees, burying her face in the mattress, using both hands between her legs. One hand deftly rubs her clit and the other slides two digits in and out of her pussy. She moves them around, finding her g-spot. Her body begins to sing.
“Oh!”
Crysta doesn't hear the key in the lock. Marcel steps into the room and follows the small, hot sounds he can hear from the bedroom. He puts his keys down on the night stand and Crysta looks up at him with big eyes, snapping her hands from their playground. Caught in the act. Marcel blinks, he doesn't say anything. Her cheeks are stained with shame.
She makes as if to get up. Marcel stops her, he kneels behind her on the ground, in the gap between her bed and the mirror. He kisses her neck, his warm breath helping to appease her embarrassment.
Crysta has her hands on the floor, either side of her kneeling form. It looks to him like a position of defeat. Marcel takes her arms gently and raises them. He places her hands, palms down, on the bed and traces the line of her beautiful form. He runs his warm hands from shoulders to hips. She turns to question him, trying to look at his reaction through the corner of her eye. She can’t read his expression.
Behind her, still all dressed in his corporate suit, his eyes are downcast. Marcel is taking his time to admire her body. Flattered, she breathes a further sigh of relief. His gaze is obscured by his long, dark lashes. She turns her head away, content now to enjoy the sensation.
She feels Marcel's hands traveling the length of her sensuous, nude back. He splays his hands softly under her bottom and cups each cheek in his hands. He leans down. She feels the silk of his tie brushing the small of her back. Marcel plants a kiss on her coccyx. She wiggles her creamy cheeks and the sensual assault intensifies. He plants warm kisses up along her spine, spreading his arms over her shoulders, caressing the skin there, all the way to her hands.
Crysta is fighting to stay still, reveling in the feel of limbs turning to water under his reverential touch. His ministrations reach her nape. She's sitting back on her haunches now, her sex inches from the carpeted floor. She whimpers, her need a tangible presence in the room. Marcel chuckles deep in the back of his throat. It makes her think of chocolate and caramel and not the busy foyer from less than an hour before. Into her ear he whispers.
“I can’t believe you started without me. I'm glad I came when I did. Let me worship you.”
Marcel stands and pulls her up beside him. Crysta feels the heat of his body through his suit. She presses her flesh to the material. It feels good, cloth and buttons teasing her nakedness. Rapidly, she does her best to undress him. She removes his tie, tugs out enough of the knot to lift it up over his head and she splays the shoulders of his suit jacket recklessly, brushing the unwanted item to the floor.
Crysta's hands are shaking as she begins to unbutton the collar of his shirt, first one button then two, then three. She's going too fast. Marcel grabs at her wrists and halts her progress. He kisses her lips and draws her tongue into a sensual dance of longing, feeling the velvet insides of her mouth, sucking her tongue. She can hear the pounding of her own heart in her ears.