Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66977 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Not coming in the process of widening my stance is a feat within itself; however, the instant he runs a finger up my inner thigh, charting the trek of stickiness back to its source, I have to clamp down on the inside of my cheek to divert the climax it threatens to release.
“Fuckkkk,” he barbarically groans during his single digit’s drag along the outside of my lower lips, “I love that I make you this way.” The teasing push inside is both brief and frustrating. “That I’m the only one who gets to make you this way.” Thankfully, his proclamation is followed by him quickly rising to his feet, pulling my ass cheeks in opposites directions, and brutishly thrusting deep. “Have you this way.” Screams of ecstasy shoot up the back of my throat only to be cut off by another husky declaration. “Claim you this way.”
And claiming is exactly what he does.
Carving his name over and over again at the hilt.
Chiseling it into every teeny, tiny orgasmic tremble that thrums its way through my system.
Temptations to move without permission grow in strength and numbers but having him split me wide open while he primitively pounds, providing my pussy with its every need makes it much easier to remain paralyzed in pure pleasure.
To get lost to the primal pressing of my nipples against the glass during each harsh heave forward and every clit brush on the yank back.
My pussy ceaselessly clamps down on his cock, pleading for more and mercy, barbarity and benevolence, endlessness and ephemeralness. His callous fingers claw at my cheeks, making sure to dig deep enough to bruise, and I merely howl out in approval. Remind him how much I love being covered in his marks as much as he loves being the one to cover me. Sweat streaks along the length of my neck until Slater slams my head forward to bump into the window forcing its trajectory to turn.
To descend down my tit.
Teasingly linger on the tip of my nipple.
Plead for him to swipe it way, which he doesn’t.
No.
He relocates the one hand that was still clutching onto my ass and whirls it around and around and around causing my sopping wet muscles to drench his dick further. Having my nipples pitilessly pinched between his fingers to the same incessant rate he’s banging my head against the glass pushes me over orgasm’s edge with no more than a sharp squeak for a warning. Rapid pulsations pulse around his cock, imploring him to join me, while screams of his names perpetually pour past my lips, fogging the see through surface with its heat. Every nerve ending in my body lights up like the very night sky we’re facing, and the notion that the whole world can not only see me but see how he sees me, how he loves to see me, hell, how he loves me, has me thoughtlessly coming all over again. This time there’s no resisting the intensity. Slater sucks in a sharp breath from what I imagined are gritted teeth and unleashes a heavenly burst. Before the blistering heat can satiate the swelling muscles, he slips out. Let’s go of my tit and aims his next blast at the backside of my pussy. And then against one ass cheek. And then the other. The last batch is splashed along the firm stretch of my thighs and the edge of my heel. Cum continually trickles across every centimeter its near leaving me benumbed by so much bliss I can barely breathe.
The sudden feeling of Slater’s lips against the shell of my ear sends faint shudders across my frame that have it shamelessly considering coming undone once more – something I didn’t even think was possible. “Now,” he arrogantly chortles, “that’s how you drip for me, Angel Cake.”
It sure the hell is.
And honestly?
I absolutely can’t wait to do it again.
Chapter 5
Slater
This isn’t the first time I’ve stuffed a woman into the trunk of a vehicle.
But it will be the last.
Hopefully.
Wedging my earpiece into place is promptly followed by turning it on and verifying its working order. “Com Check.”
“One two, one two,” Blu raps back to a familiar beat.
“Don’t do that,” I insist while surveying the seemingly vacant backlot parking area. “Don’t choose now of all times to channel your inner Juelz Santana, Little Boy Blu. We both know you were never meant to have that hip-hop career you swear you could’ve had.”
His laugh is expected and just the right amount to recenter my attention on this task at hand rather than the unfinished one I left behind.
As much as fun as it is arguing with my girlfriend about letting me handle the food being served at the engagement shower as my gift to the couple and it not being done to undermine her or communicate that I don’t think she can manage it – which she clearly can – it’s not something I should be focusing on now.