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My whole body trembles and my moans of pleasure turn ragged, disjointed, unable to find any steady rhythm as the euphoria inside of me does the same.
A drumbeat of lust that lets me forget.
The past, the future, any pain in the present—all of it floats away on a river of broiling desire.
“F-f-fuck,” I gasp, the orgasm shattering inside of me and sending creamy pleasure flowing all over his hand, down my thighs, trickling like hot syrup over my skin.
It should make me fizzle out in embarrassment.
But the way Markus snarls urges me on, his voice deep and possessive, claiming my cream and my moans and everything else I have to offer.
My breath shivers out as I slowly straighten.
“I can’t believe we did that here,” I whisper.
“I can,” Markus snarls, eyes fixated on me as I lean down to pull up my panties.
My pussy gives another pulse when I look down and see the rock hard outline of his manhood in his pants, all tangled up and yet obviously huge despite that.
“I feel bad,” I admit. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Not yet,” he snarls. “I’m saving every drop of my seed for your greedy pussy.”
Take it now, my womb screams at me. Take every last drop.
But I still feel a few whisperings of self-consciousness, just a few, and with a whelming of relief, I realize that I might be ready soon.
Maybe even tonight.
I wonder if it has anything with the idea of doing it somewhere other than here. Maybe I’ve always considered myself one kind of person – the quiet virgin, the lonely nobody – and changing that here would be too monumental, as though the walls would laugh at me because they know different.
Or maybe that’s a whole lot of mumbo jumbo and the truth is I just need to give myself more time to get ready.
Because even in his pants he looks huge.Chapter SeventeenMarkus“This place is amazing,” Millie says, looking out the window at the ocean view, a fine mist settling over it and snow lancing the air, whipping here and there as the late afternoon sun illumes it all.
I drove by the restaurant on my way toward Stone Harbor last month, a log cabin style place with fur rugs and a crackling fire in the center of it all.
The drinks are served in big steins and the chairs are like fur covered thrones. The main appeal, though, are the giant windows that look out over the ocean, making it feel like you’re floating atop a boat of mist.
But the main appeal for me is the woman sitting across from me.
Her golden brown dress complements her hair as it cascades to her shoulders, so wavy all I want to do is softly move my hands through it, feeling it shift like water. Her perfume fills the air and her face is colored every so slightly with subtle, gorgeous flourishes of makeup.
I find it hard to contain the beast inside of me as we order our drinks, two non-alcoholic German beers.
The waiter brings our drinks and leaves us with the menus, Millie pursing her lips as she looks over it.
“So it seems this place is determined to serve absolutely zero healthy options, huh?” she says.
“Damn right,” I smirk. “Real food only, I’m afraid. Why, were you thinking of getting a salad? Because let me tell you, if you were, I might just have to throw a temper tantrum.”
“Hmm,” she says, in that teasing way I’m quickly coming to savor as an integral, magnificent part of her. “Now wouldn’t that be a sight to see? But I have to say, I didn’t take you as the tantrum throwing type.”
“Oh, I’m not, usually,” I grin like a jackal. “But the thought of you sustaining those heavenly curves on leaves and greens makes me want to howl like the beast I am.”
Savagery creeps into my tone, the same savage intent that filled me in the corridor at her friend’s house when she was bent over and riding my fingers, her wetness like a blanket of irrepressible heat against me. The way she twitched her hips, the way her ass cheeks shifted and bounced for me … goddamn, that could sustain a man through a hundred wars, just the memory alone.
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Nope, you can’t fool me, Markus. I don’t think you’ll ever be the pouting, temper tantrum type. So I’m not going to listen to any more of your lies.”
I smirk and then gesture at the menu. “So what do you think, professionally speaking?”
“Well, I’m not exactly a professional.”
“I’ve tasted your cooking, remember,” I say, reaching across the carved wooden table to clasp her hand in mine.
“You tasted one dish,” she laughs.
“So?”
“Well, what if I’ve spent every day of the past decade perfecting my chili con carne, hmm? What if it’s the only dish I know how to do well? What if—”
