Holy Night

Holy Night
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

His hand drew a course along her hip, teasing the silk gown slightly higher and she turned to look into his eyes with a gleam that seemed to tell him that she had been waiting for his touch. His heart pounded a rush within his breast and another stroke dissipated down her thigh, asking her to step away into the shadows. She nodded gently without a thought and moved subtle beside him as they faded a stride away from the happy din. She turned her chin slightly, a provocative invitation he knew and accepted and his lips spoke delight with a touch, and held in the coaxing embrace of her arms, he unfolded his devotion with a feverish kiss.

A breathy pause of the rapture of the cold-but-warm night gave him the chance to give her a gesture to the door with his head. She took hold of his strong hand and let him lead her as they slipped away together into the dark starry lot, taking his car with a kiss and fondle as he fumbled his keys to release her locked door. Inside the house, beneath mistletoe, they kissed lightly, basking in the patience of anticipations slowed and he poured her a drink and one for himself and a silver disk spun out a holiday mood.

He kissed and she kissed and she lifted the silk dress impetuously brazen before sending the blue cloth flinging across their wood floor. He knelt before her to kiss her ripe tummy and the press of his lips seemed to sing songs of love and she felt her blood burn and her thoughts taking flight and he pulled at the satin scanties wrapped round her waist. She thought she should tease him and pull herself free, but his tongue touched her fire and she fell back on the dark leather chair just below. She spread her legs wide to beg his sweet lips to whisper in french to those she kept hidden and knowing her pleasure, his tongue taunted her hunger with tales of delight.

She felt her heart w elling and shuddered to feel the caress of his kiss and he drew up to tell her of his ferocious need with a bite of her neck and the prod of his staff into the damp of her netherly mouth. With a rhythm he took her and his hands played adorations in kneading her flesh and she traced the silent words of longing on his bared back, eagerly giving, unleashed and soft beatings of rippling madness and unspoken cries as they melded together on that holy night.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, swinging, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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