Miss Claire's head rose and fell in smooth, continuous motions, never rushing, never breaking the refined elegance that defined her.
Each descent brought more of him into the hot, wet clasp of her mouth; each ascent ended with a lingering swirl of her tongue around the head before she sank down again.
Soft, wet sounds filled the quiet suite—the *schlick* of saliva and precum, the faint, muffled breath when she took him particularly deep.
Don's hand continued its slow massage of her ass, fingers spreading slightly to feel the softness of her flesh, the heat of her skin against his palm.
The view of her from this angle was almost unreal: the elegant arch of her back, the fall of her damp hair against his thigh, the controlled motion of her head as she worked him with that same precise, almost clinical sensuality that somehow made the act feel more intimate than any frantic hunger could have.
He wanted more of her.
