SUMMARY: Angel and Cordelia, sexing up fruit.
POSTED: 25 Oct 2007
WARNINGS: Explicit Sexual Content and Naughty Things Done with Fruit
FICPIC CREDIT: N/A
AUTHOR NOTES: None
His first, his only craving for a long time, was blood. Rich, viscous, the hot slide of it down his throat was like biting into a heartbeat, taking life at its very core.
The only thing he’s ever needed…..
Leaning up from Cordelia’s mattress, Angel extends one long arm and reaches for the peach on her bedside table, fingers wrapping around the circular fruit with gentle fingers.
It reminds him of her, honeyed and flowing, a little tart in the back of his throat
He searched through three grocery stores to find one perfect in color, balanced in weight. Ripe, but not rotting
His seer lies twisting under the weight of his torso, wet with tears and sweat, spent.
He’s loved her for hours, until her limbs are heavy, her head lolling gently on the pillow.
She thinks he’s done, that there isn’t anything left for him to wring from her.
He smiles, knows how wrong she is.
There is always more to be gotten.
He bites through the skin, into the meat, and tears a strip away, leaving the peach bleeding its juice from the ragged edges.
He savors the tang, comparing it to the taste of her.
Almost, but not quite, the same.
He lies between her legs, down low so that when he spreads her thighs wider on the bed, she’s completely open to his slow perusal.
He examines his prize, fingers gently holding her thighs, absently caressing.
She’s like the peach. The color, the glistening juice, the ripe flesh.
He puts his thumb at her center, slips through her hyper sensitive flesh, and bends his digit.
She makes a sound that could have been a protest, or an encouragement.
He’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter. She gave herself to him, to do with what he wanted, surrendering completely.
He takes the peach and rubs it against her open cunt, smearing it all around her damp flesh, soaking it in the juice of the fruit. She shakes, biting her lip, arches her back.
She’s come so much tonight, she doesn’t think she can again, not even one more time.
He thinks she can.
He rubs the peach against her quivering little bundle of nerves that had previously responded so wonderfully to his fingers, his tongue. Now it responds again, tightening against the stimulation of the fruit, until Cordelia’s legs move restlessly on the sheets, until her hips pump up, wanting more, hands clawing at the sheets.
He makes a sound, satisfied and needing, all at once.
When she’s soaked, when it’s dripping from her, indistinguishable from the wetness he’s culled so expertly from her core, he tosses the peach aside, and bends once more to his task.
“Now, baby, what were you saying about not being able to come even one more time?”
His voice is husky, hushed, reverent and teasing.
She opens her mouth to respond, to refute or beg, but his tongue touches her, slips right through her burning, wet flesh, and she finds that all she can do is squeeze her eyes shut, and scream.