Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Please, Kent,” I whisper, and he growls against my cunt, the vibration sending a spike of pleasure up my spine. “Please. I want it.”
“You want what?” His voice is muffled, but mocking, a little cruel.
“I want your cock. Inside me. Please.”
He laughs again, rough and ragged, and then climbs up over me, knees bracketing my hips. He’s stripped bare now, cock huge and angry and leaking at the tip. I want to reach for it, but he pins my wrists above my head with one hand and uses the other to line himself up.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do. His eyes burn. His jaw is clenched. For a moment, I think he might cry.
He presses the head of his cock to my entrance and pushes, slow, so slow I want to scream. There’s a moment — just a second — when I think it’ll never fit, that I’ll split in two. Then, a bright, white-hot pain, like being cut and stitched in the same breath. I suck in air, nails digging into his forearm, a sharp cry muffled in the crook of his neck.
He goes still. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I gasp, blinking tears out of my eyes. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He pulls back, just a little, then pushes in again, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a spreading heat, a fullness that blots out the rest of the world. He moves slow, patient, letting me adjust to him, and with every thrust the hurt slips away more, replaced by something sharper, something sweet.
He lets go of my wrists and brings his hand to my face, thumb smearing away the tears, then slides it down to my throat, gentle but firm.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, and the words make my cunt spasm around him. He kisses me, tongue deep and greedy, then fucks me harder, faster, hips slamming into mine.
He talks the whole time, filthy words I never knew I wanted to hear:
“You were made for this, you know that? You were made to be Daddy’s fuck toy, weren’t you, baby?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I pant, not even thinking about it, just wanting to please him. “I’m your cockholster!”
He groans.
“You’re such a dirty little slut with a dirty mouth too. Such a horny, slutty whore with a creamy cunt that craves Daddy’s fucks.” He squeezes my throat, not hard, but enough to let me know I’m his.
I come without warning, the orgasm tearing through me, body locking up around his cock. I scream his name, and he groans, a feral sound, and buries himself to the hilt, coming with a shudder that rocks the bed.
“Fuck!” he shouts. “Shit shit shit!”
“Ooooh!” I cry, my pussy spasming violently as pleasure rushes through my veins. “Mmmm yes!”
We pump and pulse desperately, our climaxes incredibly powerful. My breasts shake, pussy exploding as this man takes me to the Heavens and back. Even as the ecstasy subsides, we stay locked together, breath mingling, sweat slicking our skin.
Kent collapses beside me, drags me into his arms, and buries his face in my hair. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, wild at first, then slowing.
For a long time, neither of us says a word.
My body hums, every nerve ending alive. The pain is gone, replaced by a strange, aching joy. My thighs are sticky with cum, my hair tangled, lips swollen and raw.
I close my eyes, listen to the sound of Kent’s breathing, and think: This is it. This is what I wanted.
I drift, half-asleep, tangled in the sheets and in him.
When I wake, the fire’s out, the room cold, but his arms are around me, tight and certain, like he’ll never let go.
I believe him.
I never want to leave this bed.
16
THE MORNING AFTER
MARY KATE
It takes a minute to remember how I got here.
I’m on my stomach, face buried in a pillow that still holds the ghost of his cologne—sandalwood and sharp, resinous spice, heavy enough to burn behind my eyes when I inhale. The duvet is a weighted thing pinning me to the bed, every inch of me sunk into the mattress as if I’ve aged a hundred years overnight, or maybe been freshly poured in concrete. The room is too bright: rays of the morning sun strobe through cracks in the blackout curtains and burn hot on the sheet-tangled mess where my legs should be.
My first real thought is: I’m alive. My second is: my body’s not mine.
There’s an ache, low and bruised, a soreness that makes itself known with every shallow breath. I roll my hips experimentally, and a shot of pain splits me at the seam—my thighs, my lower back, the raw, battered place between my legs. The skin there feels chafed, hyperreal, a reminder that what happened last night was not a dream, not a story I told myself while drifting in and out. I’m flooded with the memory of him: Kent, his weight, the jaw hard as a riverstone and the mouth that refused to be gentle, the way he held my wrists above my head and told me, over and over, what I am.