Sex was the ultimate universal language. It was the common coin between a pauper and a princess, and a garbageman and a lawyer. Nearly everyone – in every world, at every time, if they were over the age of eighteen – had done it at one point or another.
In Ash’s simple opinion, that meant that he and Sheila needed to practice frenching more.
So Ash used his mouth – as inept as he was with that. He sucked her breasts sore with it, then bit his way down to her inner thighs. She was no wraith – her flesh was made for holding, molding, and squeezing, so he licked her mons with quick, light flicks of his tongue, sucking and tickling the tiny bit of flesh that was the key to her pleasure. She writhed and sobbed and shifted against his hands, until she bucked hard enough to break his nose and rake her nails through his hair.
She got out one word before he slipped between her legs and into the hottest snatch he’d had in months.
The word should’ve made him sweat bullets, but his cock was buried balls-deep in snug, wet pussy – it called all the shots and drove his hips to shove her up the bed – Sheila, stroking his upper arms, moaned and thrashed, her hair a disarray of curls, her lips pressed against his throat, biting it, bruising it. Nails scored his back as he hammered his dick into her tight pussy.
“ASH,” she called.
He must have said something in return, a few minutes later, when he finally came.
When Ash finally raised his head again, she was smiling.
“What?” he frowned.
“I have discovered how to silence thee.”
Ash pouted and turned over.