Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
She starts coming again, squeezing big handfuls of the blanket.
“Should I pull out?” I gasp, but I can’t think. It’s all happening so fast. Her ass is so, so, so hypnotic. I’ve never seen a sight sexier than my dick gliding into her, her white creamy juices coating my thickness, her ass bouncing and red from her punishment.
“Yuh-yes,” she moans.
“Fuck,” I growl at the same time, and it’s too late. A powerful stream of come erupts from me. I glide out of her pussy, rubbing my dick as the rest of the come explodes over her red ass and back. She’s still shaking from the orgasm as it slips down over the redness toward her pussy.
She turns with a guilty smile on her face. Then the smile fades. Panic flutters in her face. Damn, she looks so young here, so lost. With the orgasm fading, the famed post-nut syndrome I’ve always heard about, I can clinically and coldly look at what I’ve just done.
I seduced her, used her, and betrayed my friend.
“I need to…” She stands abruptly, covering herself.
“Mary—”
She runs from the room.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
MARY
I run up the stairs, Mom’s voice loud in my head, my privates sore and achy and feeling so damn good. “Your privates?” the specter of Mom says. “You were just bent over, letting that man spank you, letting him fuck you like an unmarried, sinful dog, and now you want to think about ‘privates’ as if you have any dignity left?”
I run into my bedroom, slam the door, sit on the floor, and bring my knees to my chest. I can feel his come slipping out of my still-warm core. Not privates. My pussy. My body. It felt so good, like heaven, like a dream come true, when he slid inside, and all the discomfort melted away. Then it was just us—the moment.
I hear footsteps outside my bedroom door.
“Mary.” Rust’s voice sounds more emotional than I’ve ever heard it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just getting cleaned up,” I call in my brightest, most confident voice.
“What we just did—”
“I’m just getting cleaned up.”
I don’t mean to yell, but too many emotions are swirling in my head. What if Brad ever found out? I remember sitting at the window, watching them play football in the yard, when I was, what, four, five, six? It would break Brad’s brain. He wouldn’t be able to accept it.
When I hear Rust leave, I quickly dart into the shower and wash myself, thinking of how we’ll have to handle this. When he called me baby—I shouldn’t let myself think about this with the warm water trickling over my body—everything in me exploded with starlight. I didn’t know pleasure like that existed. It was instant and intense. It was just like what I fantasized about.
He was taking responsibility. He said he’d masturbated over me before. Was that just dirty talk? Or has he been touching that huge, hard length as he pictures me rubbing my tits for him? He seemed so obsessed with my body, too.
I cut off my thoughts, then quickly clean my body, rinse my hair, and leave the shower. The rain has slowed down. I haven’t heard any thunder for a few minutes. It’s like the spell is lifting. We’re no longer closed off from the rest of the world. We have to face reality now.
But I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this to be the end. It has to be. There’s no other route through this. Anyway, this isn’t about what I want. It’s about what has to happen.
After drying off, I change into the least sexy outfit possible: a thick bra, a plaid shirt, and some thick jeans. It’s like I’m armoring myself against him. My hair is still wet and tied up like a rat’s tail. When I walk into the living room, I see it in Rust’s face, the change in his posture. He still wants me.
He’s dressed now, too, the blanket folded up on the floor. I’ll have to put it in the laundry. He stands and walks over to me but doesn’t take my hands. He just stares like a universe of intensity is burning behind his stony facade.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask.
He sighs darkly. “We both know I shouldn’t have done that.”
“What do you mean you shouldn’t have?”
“I’m the one who said we should wrestle. I knew I wanted you. I knew where it would lead.”
“I thought you were a virgin, too? How did you know?”
He steps even closer, bringing his heat with him, his scent. It’s musky and thick and strangely tempting. It’s like he’s talking to something deep in my body, but no. That’s silly. Focus on the now. The physical. The real.
“Just because I was a virgin,” he goes on, “doesn’t mean I was as inexperienced as you. I’ve been around fighters all my life. I’ve heard things. You’re only eighteen.”