I Need A Mocha Latte

"Stop. Apologizing."

She could barely get the words out, with her lungs working at full capacity, breathing so heavily that she thought her heart might explode. She can feel his tongue flickering, as he whispers, "I'm so sorry," again and again against her thighs. It's the most delicate tickle in the entire world, and she's drawn back to how this all began.

He loves how soft her thighs are. She shivers even if he just breathes on them. He knew he was going to spend hours just kissing and licking them the minute he saw her hips. It makes her so wet, the minute he starts to lick, up her thighs, parting her legs, into her pussy. He loves the way they bicker, but he loves making her lose her voice.

Two weeks ago, when it wasn't raining, but it wasn't dry, but you couldn't walk anywhere without your face getting dripping wet in the mist, she ran in for coffee. It was just a door with a neon sign that said "Expresso." She ignored it for a long time, partially because it was horribly misspelled and partly because it was a hole in the wall. But it was Monday, and she was soaked to the bone and desperate, and espresso was a good idea, no matter how they wanted to spell it.

One more pissed off yuppie on one more worthless Monday. Pleasant face, high breasts, and luscious hips for digging fingers into, but he's sure that she's going to try to order a drink they don't even have in a size they don't even make, like a billion yuppie girls before her. The owner never comes by on Mondays and the sale isn't worth it.

"Mocha latte," it just rolled out of her mouth without looking at the menu. The man behind the counter stared at her. "Are you joking? This isn't some fancy ass chain place. Here we have coffee. You can get it cold or hot, run through a blender if I like you and you look desperate, and it comes in small, medium or large. Say 'venti' and you're out." She just stared. He was about twenty five, the same age as her. He had shaggy blonde hair, but wasn't about to get it cut. It just barely brushed the top of gray, blue eyes that seemed condescending and playful all at once. He wasn't too muscular, but how could anyone tell under those coffee aprons? And why was she bothering to look at a rude coffee guy?

"I'm still sorry." She's licking his neck slowly, leaving a trail of little bites and he's moaning. She puts her hand down his pants, but it's not enough. She can just barely rub the tip, so she shoves her hand and she grabs exactly what she wants and she can hear him lose his breath.

She's amazing with her hands. Years of college and then some fancy ass PR job have made her a great typist. She knows just the right amount of pressure and he loves it. He's found that she loves to touch him. Under tables at restaurants. In traffic. Behind the counter at the coffee shop. Anywhere. She just seems to love his dick. He assumes that it's not just him, and maybe it's a personal quirk she has, but he doesn't question good luck. Even if she tried to order a ridiculous coffee.

And back, back two weeks ago. "Ok, it's Monday. I just want some coffee. I'll try to actually order something that's on the menu and you try to stop being a bastard. I think it's a fair deal." And she likes him now, because he's heard what she's just said, and there's a spark in his eye. He looks a little bit angry and she likes him a WHOLE lot more. God, she wants him to have the afternoon off.

"Do you remember that first afternoon, when I walked into the coffee shop and you wouldn't give me coffee and you were so rude?" He just stares at her, like he's going to devour her, like he has every day, once or twice a day, for the past two weeks. He says she's the only person who was ever rude in return. "I'm so very, very sorry," he whispers into her ear. She can still feel his dick, just throbbing in her hand. She's learned it so well. How the minute she touches him or kisses his neck, it starts to harden. Every single bit of skin tightens to its breaking point and she can see every vein, the blood flowing through them at the same pace with his heart. It's big. Not too big. She never wanted a porn star. The head fits in her mouth just right. If she moves fast enough, she can take the entire thing down her throat, and when the slit of the head hits the back of my throat, his face grimaces. He looks like he might die of the sensation. Twenty minutes. She loves to let him cum deep in her throat and it takes exactly twenty minutes before he's ready to go again, so she has to decide if she can wait that long for sex. Sometimes it's worth it, the taste of salt and the expression on his face when she looks up, and she can feel the warm drip in her throat.

He thought girls hated blow jobs. Every girlfriend he'd ever had always acted like it was a horrible chore. It was either returning the favor or payment for a gift or a nice dinner. A whore's action. She seems to like it all, every sexual action they take. She licks and sucks, a little swirl around the head of his dick that makes him insane, and he can't help but want to taste her in return. It's never been like this before.

But right now, she's dying in her clothing. His hands are so incredibly quick. She was covered, a shirt, two shirts, a sweater, pants, but she heard zippers and buttons and felt the slide of fabric, and his hands are on her breasts, along the sides, the touch just enough to make her nipples hard. She never liked pain, but his teeth in her skin hurt and she cries out and he knows that it doesn't mean she wants him to stop.

Everytime he gets her naked, it's like the first time. He thought she looked good when she walked into shop, but she looks amazing naked. Pink nipples on perfect, medium size breasts. He knows they'll sag later, but he got her at just the right age. A delicate triangle of hair between her legs that she probably keeps trimmed just right, but he's never asked. And those hips. Oh god, he just wants to grab her by them the minute she shows up.

Every guy she'd ever slept with bit his nails. He doesn't. He keeps them trimmed but he grabs her ass so hard that she cries out again, and it still doesn't mean that she wants him to stop. She never wants him to stop.

And then she really does scream because she's falling. He's thrown her onto the floor. Nobody throws her off. But once she finds herself on the floor, he pounces like a cat and he's inside of her already. She slaps him in the face so hard her hand stings and he just licks her palm. He just laughs and thrusts so hard that her hips come up automatically. She's had enough delicate sex at the age of twenty five. He's making a noise she's never heard, and thrusting so hard that her breasts are bouncing. Up and down, up and down, until he covers them with his hands. She's so wet that she can hear him sliding in and out, a wet suction noise as she draws him further in.

He wants to try everything with her. He's never felt adventurous, but he wants to try everything. Before her, it had been girl after girl, almost always missionary. They've done it in every room in both of their apartments. The coffee shop. The movie theater. Her car. His car. A dressing room. The park. A swing on a playground in the middle of the night. Maybe those sex swings aren't so ridiculous. He wants to try being tied up and tickled with feathers. Using whipped cream. The entire Kama Sutra.

The thrusting just keeps getting about a half a centimeter deeper every time, and she can't hold anymore. She arches her back up in a position she could never make herself do in yoga and she can feel the head of his dick deeper inside her and she starts to spasm. He's so merciless, riding her through it until she can feel herself tightening again and she yells, "Oh, god," so loudly she's sure her neighbors can hear, and she can tell that he's cumming with her. He's grunting, and it's two single hard thrusts.

He may have actually hit a magic button inside of her because she arched her back in a way he didn't even know women could move and she grabbed onto him, but he's not ready to stop. She might draw blood along his back with how hard she's holding on, but she doesn't seem in control, and he doesn't care. The familiar feeling is back. The pulsing and he knows he's about to come. Something in her tightens though. She's hurting him, inside of her, but oh god, it's so perfect, squeezing all around his dick and he cums so hard he almost passes out on top of her.

"You should have given me a mocha latte." "I said I was sorry. Several times." "We should try bondage." "We should move in together." "We should move to Italy." "Stop talking. Are you ready to do it again yet?"