The Spanish Kiss

Rebeca Linares stares at him like she owns his cock. She wraps her fingers tight around the base and works him with slow, twisting strokes until he throbs against her palm. Then she leans in, opens wide, and takes him. Not gentle. Her throat accepts every inch, swallowing him whole. She glides down until her nose presses flat against his skin, holding there with that deep, wet grip. The sound is obscene—slick suction, air fighting through her nose. When she pulls back, thick ropes of spit cling to her lips, her chin, stretching back to the swollen head. She smiles at the mess. Goes in again. Deep. Hungrier. He feels her tongue press and coil, feels her throat squeeze like she’s trying to milk him straight down into her belly. ‘El beso espanol,’ they call it. A kiss straight from the gutter, wet and filthy and perfect.