Kissing Pixels

x-art_angelica_spilled_milk-5-smlAn excerpt from Fleshbot Fiction's Kissing Pixels.

We spent a weekend together a few months ago when he was in town for business. A dumb meet cute in a bookstore Friday afternoon led to dinner, which slipped into drinks, which eased us up to his room like the start of either a softcore cable flick or a toothless romcom. I won't be coy, though; we fucked all weekend. With teeth.

The weekend was a microcosm of a relationship, if you count him flying home as a breakup, which I kinda didn't. The die was cast the first time I smelled him. He was leaning near me at the bookstore to ask me some bullshit question about the book I was looking at, and the warmth of his body emanated from the collar of his button-down shirt, and a few errant chest hairs made their way to freedom. I imperceptibly shuddered from the back of my neck down my spine. I wanted to put my nose directly into the soft fur under his arms.

Dinner progressed to awkward limb nudging -- a knee here, a touch on the forearm there -- but by dessert, I had a tipsy little smirk on my face that said it all.

We'd begun kissing wetly and wrestling with layers of clothes before the elevator doors even closed; by the time the doors opened on the 35th floor, the front of his neatly pressed woolen slacks were dotted with pre-come and his chin smelled like my cunt. I'd always wanted to fuck in an expensive hotel room on the company's dime, especially a businessman who did unfathomably boring things in endless meetings before jetting off again in business class. He did something with finance and law, a deadly combination of things that I don't and have no desire to truly understand.

He liked verbal foreplay as much as I did; I'd thrust and he'd parry and back again. Being incredibly smart was a turn-on, as was his ability to speak multiple languages. He'd accumulated tales of travels around Europe and Asia in his late teens and early twenties as it seemed most Europeans do; getting violently ill from food in Bangkok, swimming in the hot salt springs of Iceland, sneaking joints on the streets of Barcelona during an futile attempt to photograph every Gaudí in a day.

Yes, he had that accent, which is an almost egregiously obvious turn-on to any American woman, even New Yorkers who considers themselves far superior to such trivialities. But what really got me were his lips, which were almost grotesquely sexy. He'd smile and a canine would poke out, and it made me feel like a goddamn Victorian lady reaching for her smelling salts. I'd spent slow days at work looking up flights to London, subscribing and hastily unsubscribing to all the travel deal newsletters over the months since I'd first met him.

Every email from him made me smile in a sort of guilty way, knowing it was a little bump of the drug I craved -- desire, the knowledge someone else out in the world was desiring me too, despite the long lonely nights of winter -- but I'd think about his thin, finely pointed fingers typing out the words and had to go to the bathroom to jerk off before I could do anything else. We flirted but we didn't get nasty, and we didn't do more than email. No texting, no photos slyly snapped with our phones of a half-covered breast or graceful clavicle, and no video chatting. We were both busy with work, but our emails were nice to have. A tiny beacon that someone in the world might be jerking off and thinking of you is a luxury.

Once we were inside his hotel room that night, he looked at me with clear eyes and made sure I was on board. We quickly negotiated the situation -- both recently tested for all STIs, no history of outbreaks or lesions, no current monogamous significant others, all that super sexy stuff -- and as soon as we were both satisfied, he dropped to his knees and buried his head under my skirt between my legs again, breathing on the thin cotton of my boy shorts. It was still summer, and my body was wild and unruly. It was cool in the hotel room, but sweat poured off of us; I licked it off the side of his neck, and it tasted faintly of salt and scotch. I kissed my way up to his ear and gave the little spot near his hairline a tiny lick, breathed softly, and took his lobe swiftly into my mouth. His shivering sigh swelled in the air, and then it was hard to balance the soft and the sharp, teeth and nails versus tongue and eyelashes.

He was an incredible fuck. It was easy to tell that he loved women, in a real, honest way, that he probably had cool female friends that I would like, that he didn't care if I'd shaved my legs or not, and that he'd probably had at least one older lover who taught him how to be eat pussy. He didn't try to stay at a distance and lick my clit politely; he had his nose buried in me, his tongue fucking me, his fingers everywhere inside and out, teasing my ass and scratching me and rubbing himself on, well, whatever. If we were in the bath or on the floor, he'd rub his cock on my leg; in bed, on the comforter. Sometimes I sat on his face and sucked his cock until I couldn't remember how to keep a rhythm going with my mouth and hands because his tongue was everywhere at once.

We didn't leave all weekend, and we made a huge mess. He managed to leave the room service plates in the hallway to be picked up, but otherwise the room was a wasteland of bed sheets and towels where we'd gone in and out of the giant tub, or to soak up the gushes of fluid my body let loose when I came hard. Half-drunk glasses of wine, condom wrappers, the clothes I'd worn the day we'd met, half of which I'd never find again, and the occasional stain. On the carpet, even. He left a big tip for housekeeping.

Read the rest of Fleshbot Fiction's Kissing Pixels for only ninety-nine cents! Find more hot erotic fiction at Fleshbot Fiction--and more hot photos at X-Art.

Tagged in: books, erotica, text, fleshbot fiction

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