Chance of a Lifetime by Portia Da Costa Read Free Book Online

action. I don’t want to be just held. I want to be fucked! I want him inside me, face-to-face, possessing every bit of me.
    And now it’s my turn to tear at clothes, wrenching open his shirt as he first heels off his boots and kicks them away, then fumbling with his belt and his jeans button and struggling to free him from his jeans. Between us we achieve our objective and he sinuously wriggles clear of the restriction of the denim.
    He’s glorious naked. Utter perfection. Long and lean, yet powerful, his enticingly defined chest dusted with a scattering of dark hair. And there’s more of that dark hair clustered below, adorning the base of his belly and the root of his eager, jutting cock.
    He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man, and I want to be worthy of him, a graceful, dexterous, intelligent lover.
    But instead, I squeal like a scared kid and hurl myself at him for protection when thunder roars again, right overhead. The crack is so loud I’m convinced the manor has been struck, but it seems not to have been when all Christian does is gather me into his arms and hold me tight against his warm, hard body, stroking my back and murmuring sweet, reassuring bits of nothing.
    The heavens rage and bellow, lightning illuminating the room, even though the obviously ancient and rather shabby curtains are quite thick. One powerful arm still wrapped around me, Christian tugs at the bedclothes—old-fashioned linen sheets, woolen blankets and a quilt on top—and pulls them right up and over our heads, sealing out the light show and some, if not all, of the noise.
    “Better?” he whispers, his voice echoing strangely in our frowsty little nest. He tightens his arms around me again, and snuggles me close. The heat under all this bedding is really quite oppressive, but the sensation of safety, and of being cared for, more than makes up for that.
    And the fact that he’s still erect, and his delicious penis is pushing against my belly and weeping warm, silky fluid, makes matters infinitely more interesting and sensual.
    “Yes….” I whisper, adjusting myself to rub against him and let him know that my fear of the storm hasn’t killed my desire for him. In fact, the more I feel that long, hard, fabulous tower of flesh against my skin, the less I seem to be noticing the muffled booming of the thunder.
    “Well, we’ll have to pop out sooner or later, or we’ll suffocate.” He pauses, then chuckles. “And I’m going to need some air if I’m going to make love to you properly. A guy needs plenty of wind in his lungs for a good performance.”
    As if by magic, the next roll of thunder sounds much more muted, more distant. And the one after that even more so, far less fierce.
    “I think I’ll be all right now.” I place my hand flat against his belly, then slide on down. When I fold my fingers around his prick, he gasps and tugs at the quilt, so we emerge.
    “Are you sure? It could still come back again. We could wait a little while, if you’d like.”
    He’s still concerned, thoughtful, caring. Even though his penis is like a bar of fire in my hand, and the satin flow of pre-come is yet more copious.
    “I don’t think I can wait.”
    It’s true. My own body is flowing for him too. I’m wetter than a river down below. The thunder chunters again in the background, and though I flinch, my need for Christian is far greater than my remaining fears.
    I part my legs and he gets the message and starts to touch me, his fingertip settling lightly, yet with authority, on my clit.
    The pleasure comes quickly, as wild and elemental as the storm, and just as electric. Within seconds, I’m climaxing hard, rocked by the intense, hungry spasms in my sex, and fighting a battle with myself not to grip Christian’s cock too roughly.
    But he just laughs kindly, and pushes toward me while I pulse and pulse.
    When I get my breath back, I stare at him as he looms over me in the low light from the bedside lamp. I’m still