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“So…” I say, giddy as hell.

“So…” she says, nervous as hell.

She’s sculpted her body into a work of art, all lean and sinewy with hard abs. With her tats that go from her wrist to her shoulder and her eyes the color of Iceland, no wonder her fans have started calling her la chasseuse: the huntress. They’ve seen her legs dish out punishment and her strong arms choke out whoever has the misfortune to be in the ring with her.

“You said you’d dance for me if you won,” I remind her.

“I know. I remember,” she says, licking her lips.

“Let me lead you?” I ask. She just nods. I put my arm around her waist and hers around my neck, and we sway gently around the room.

This is the side of her they don’t get to see. The gentle touches, the smiles, the communication that is beyond words, lips to lips, body to body. I’ve earned them, and they’re mine alone.

“I think I got it,” she says, and shoves me on the bed. This is going to be her show.

Her hands around her belt buckle, she starts swaying her hips, her clear blue eyes locked onto my brown ones. I spread my legs and slip one hand into my pants. I’m not doing anything yet, but I know it won’t fail to arouse her.

It’s a game between us, who’ll be the first one to give in, the first one to come undone.

Fuck it, I think I’m gonna lose today.

I grab her by her slender hips and she lets out a surprised yelp. I love it when she’s fresh off a win, still vibrating from the energy, a light sheen of sweat on her ink. I want nothing more than for her to rub off on me.

I kiss her deeply and whisper in her ear, “Baby’s gotta cum, doesn’t she?” I feel her nod. “Let me take care of you,” I say.

My fingers move down and as soon as I touch her pussy, her hips start gyrating. Her trimmed bush feels amazing on my fingers. When she’s like that, her native French comes back.

“Tu aimes me toucher, n’est-ce pas, fille coquine?”

“Oui,” I answer. I have no idea what she’s saying but I never get tired of hearing her speak French to me.

“Tu veux me donner du plaisir, non?” she smiles.

I roll her over onto her back; my body is still pressed snugly to hers, but that way I get to see her when she unravels. There’s nothing more satisfying than that, especially with the way her eyes change shade.

“Aimes-tu cela?” I ask, stumbling a little over the words in my broken French as I use one finger to rub around her clit and the other teasing, just shy of entering her.

“Oui… oui!” she stammers. Her words fail her. Good. Enough with the words.

I kiss my way down, taking my time to appreciate the effort she puts into sculpting herself into this fighting machine. She flexes for me, a hint of where she wants me to kiss her next, but really, she’s at the mercy of my kisses.

I inhale her scent, my tongue swirling around her. I sense the desire in how she tenses; she’s an open book to me that way.

Lost in her pleasure, she lets out a raw wail and her whole body arches up. She slumps back down and as her eyes open I see the desire in them to take me where she’s just been. But this isn’t about me, not tonight.

She has other plans though.

She grins and I find myself on my back again, my arms pinned to the wall. Her hips keep gyrating.

“Mon tour,” she says. My turn. She doesn’t let go of my arms though. Her hips keep pushing and shoving and I’m still in my jeans but it’s still enough. I wouldn’t want to waste time taking them off anyway, not when she’s like that.

It doesn’t take long. Her mouth captures mine, frantic kissing to cover my screams of pleasure, and then it’s over. Her eyes flutter open, just enough for her to murmur, “incroyable.” Then I find myself covered by her athletic body and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Her body is a work of art, but I know something they don’t know: so is her mind.

FRENCH LESSONS:

Tu aimes me toucher, n’est-ce pas, coquine? — You like touching me, don’t you, naughty girl?

Tu veux me donner du plaisir, non? — You want to give me pleasure, right?

Aimes-tu cela? — Do you like that?

Mon tour — My turn

Incroyable — incredible