Nocturne for Two
by Eric Ross
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Erotica Sex Story: A soft hand pulls him from sleep. Soon he’s drinking her down, lost between her thighs, until she begs for his cock inside her.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Cream Pie Oral Sex AI Generated .
I don’t know what time it was—just dark, the kind that erases corners. I was floating in that soft, stupid place before thoughts, when a fingertip skimmed my arm. Barely there. Like a moth’s wing. I almost told myself I imagined it ... until it came again. Slower. Tracing a line I could feel long after her hand moved on.
You know that limbo where sleep and want overlap? That’s where I was when I turned toward her. Her breath warmed the space between us. Her hand, small and sure, drifted up my chest like she was checking for a pulse.
I kissed her. Soft first, a test. Her lips parted on a little sigh that said yes without a word. I went back for more. Deeper. Tongue against tongue. Warm, a little salty with the night, sweet in a way you only taste in the dark. She made that sound—the not-quite-moan, the caught breath—and it ran through me like a fuse.
My hand slipped from her cheek to the slope of her neck and shoulder. Her skin ran hot under my palm. I followed the ridge of her spine, vertebra by vertebra, until my fingers curved over her ass. I held her there, the slow squeeze that’s more question than grab. She answered by shifting—hips tipping, body yielding. She rolled onto her back in this single, patient motion, the mattress answering with a quiet creak, and her knees fell open like a door on an old latch.
You could feel the room change. Heavier air. The kind that smells like skin and heat and yes.
I stayed on her for a beat, kneading, then slid down her hip and over the high of her thigh. The inside was satin-warm, softer than anywhere else. I took my time. Short strokes. Long strokes. The kind of touch that says: I’m not going to miss a single inch of you.
She breathed into my mouth when my hand drifted higher. Her thighs eased wider with this slow, deliberate hunger. Before I reached her, I felt the heat rising off her. That’s the part that gets me every time—the aura of it, the way it pulls you in.
I traced the tender skin beside her lips, not the center, not yet. Barely a brush. A circle sketched there, then another. She caught a breath like she’d tripped on the edge of a step. The first slick found my fingertips, faint at first, then back again a touch thicker. It grew with each pass, coating me, turning my hand into the kind of glide that makes patience feel like a vow.
She whispered something small—a noise that wasn’t a word so much as a permission. Her hips tilted to meet me. Sheets murmured. The soft, musky sweetness of her opened up, and I swear my mouth watered on instinct.
I drew a slow line up along her slit, stopping just under the hood. Not pressure. Proximity. Letting her know I knew exactly where the heat gathered. Her thighs trembled. I did it again and felt the tiny throb waiting for me.
“That feels nice,” she murmured, and the way it fell out of her—unguarded, sleepy, honest—hit me like a hand on my chest.
I kept teasing until the line between restraint and cruelty blurred. She pulled away from my mouth just enough to breathe and said it clean this time. “I need more.”
I slid down between her legs. My knees found the warm hollow in the sheets. She opened wider to make room for me. I started slow: a kiss above her knee, salt and sleep and heat; another where thigh meets pelvis; a short lick along that hidden seam that makes every nerve sit up.
Her hand found my hair. Not to push, not yet—just to claim. I hovered over her and breathed. She was glossy in the faint spill of streetlight coming through the curtains. Swollen. Slick. Ready.
I pressed my tongue to her and drew one long stroke from base to hood. The taste bloomed—earthy, sweet, sharp—all at once. So alive it made my shoulders shiver. I circled her, kissed her the way you kiss someone you know by heart: not rushing, not timid, just present. The slick gathered fast, warm and heavy against my mouth. It ran to my chin. I didn’t care.
Her hips began to talk. Little rolls. A pulse that told me where to go. I flirted with her clit—just a brush, a feather of tongue—and she jolted hard enough that my ears rang. So I did it again, barely there, and she gasped my name like a warning and a prayer.
I closed my mouth around her and sucked gently. Tongue rolling, lips sealing, that slow, deep pressure that turns sparks into a line of fire. She tipped her pelvis up, thighs locking around my head, and the whole world narrowed to the throb against my tongue. I kept my pace steady. I let her chase me and I let her catch me, back and forth, until the rhythm found its own logic.
The tiny sounds broke into long ones. The tight breaths turned into broken moans she never uses in daylight. Her hand, so polite at first, tightened on my hair until it stung.
She got wetter. Slick flooded out and into my mouth and across my chin. Every pass brought more, and every more made her say yes without language. I pressed two fingers to the mouth of her, just the outer lip, holding her open so my tongue could kiss everywhere at once. She cried out. The pitch of it told me she was past talking.
It hit quick, then slow, then all at once. Her back bowed clean off the mattress. Her thighs clamped me like iron and trembled like water. She screamed—a full, ripped-open sound that made something in my ribs go loose—and a hot rush flooded my mouth. I drank, swallowed, kept working her. I didn’t let go. You don’t when it’s like that. You don’t break the seal while the wave is still building under your tongue.
She convulsed in pulses, fast then slower then fast again, her clit hammering against me. The gush came in surges—blissfully messy, unashamed. She ground against my face, chasing the shock of it deeper, and I held her ass with both hands and pulled her closer, as if I could put all of her through my mouth.
Every time her body softened, something else inside her clenched, and we were off again. She sobbed once, this raw little sound that wasn’t sad at all, just too much feeling trying to fit through a narrow door.
When she finally sagged back, she kept twitching in tiny, involuntary flutters. My lips ghosted her with soft, useless kisses. Tender after hurricane. She winced when I brushed her clit too directly—”too much”—so I eased off and just rested my mouth against the warm mound above, breathing her in while the aftershocks spent themselves.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.