My lips move from yours, traveling down across your jaw to find the sweet spot on your throat. My hands emerge from the tangle of limbs to unfasten your blouse, one button at a time. My teeth graze your neck and I can taste your skin, feel its heat. My mouth moves again, across your bare skin to your breast. Freed at last, your erect nipple tastes even more of arousal than your throat, if that is possible. It must be the combination of sensations in my mouth that give rise to this thought: taste, scent, touch. I flick my tongue to hear you moan, and feel you move and shift.

Your hands, meanwhile, have opened my shirt and your mouth works its way, slowly, across my chest and down my torso. You reach for my belt, and your eyes meet mine: I nod, and you begin to make up to me the various disappointments, the dashed hopes and expectations of our online flirtation. Meanwhile I continue to slowly, deliberately peel away your blouse; slacks; undergarments. My fingers find your sex, wet with desire, and begin to probe and tease, while I continue to lavish attention on your breasts and, especially, your nipples with my mouth, my lips, my tongue, my teeth.

My free hand finds the back of your head, and my fingers lock in your hair. For one moment I pull you up — almost force you, unwilling — and give you my fingers, to taste yourself, before you go back for another taste of me. I turn around and plunge into you suddenly, and you gasp. I withdraw, and, fingers still laced in your hair, firmly guide your head back to my cock, to give you another deep taste of you.

You drain me, while my fingers and tongue bring you to a shuddering orgasm. We kiss again, and fall asleep, our bodies entangled, intertwined: momentarily satisfied, but not yet sated.