Thatcher of course took note of how glistening wet her pussy was. If it could talk, it would probably<i>beg </i>to be touched. But he also took a sinister glee in completely ignoring it. He lapped so ferociously at her butthole that each time he drew his face back for a fleeting breath, translucent strings of spit kept his lips connected to her puckered star. It didn't surprise him that he was already addicted to her taste. It was still days before her return flight to JFK. If the snow beyond the windows kept up, it could be longer. But he was already heartbroken about the prospect of not being able to put his mouth on her whenever he wanted.<br/><br/>On the third of fourth time he drew back for breath, he feverishly peeled his t-shirt up over his head and tossed it haphazardly aside. The air was cold, but he was coated in a light layer of sweat. Like a wolf following it's hunger, his brain was completely devoid of thoughts. He was driven purely by a carnal desire to claim her.<br/><br/>His hands found her hips again, and he rolled her over, flat onto her back on the bed. One at a time, he pulled each of her black boots from her feet letting them hit the hardwood with two resounding<i>THUDS</i>. He then grabbed a hold of her jeans and yanked them off as well. She laid beneath him in her sweater and her g-string which was still pulled lewdly to the side.<br/><br/>He then laid his body atop hers and kissed his mouth, allowing her to sample her own taste which was still lingering on his tongue. One hand held her face. As they kissed, he pulled her sweater up above her breasts and started to yank her panties down her legs.