Page 93 of Plug and Claim

Maybe, I can pretend Nathaniel is someone else. Maybe, I can pretend he isn’t here at all.

Her body moved before she’d made up her mind, her hips shifting forward, tilting as she closed that tiny, infinite distance. She let out a shaky moan as her aching pussy brushed the fabric of his trousers, shuddering as pleasant tremors rippled along her tender folds.

It felt so fucking good. But it was just a small taste of what she needed.

Abandoning her reservations, she pressed herself closer, rubbing her clit against his erection.

Fuck. Yes.

It would have been even better if he’d remove his trousers.

“Good girl,” Nathaniel whispered as she rocked against him. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

She didn’t respond, trying to block his voice out as she focused on the armchair through her hazy vision.

Intricate wooden frame...

Rosebuds…

Twisted vine carvings that writhed, just as her core did, her pussy saturated with wet desire, the growing aches creeping steadily closer to an orgasm that promised to be euphoric.

Kira tried to be quiet, but she couldn’t hold back the high-pitched whines that escaped her as she rubbed herself against Nathaniel’s warm, hard body.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his sultry voice penetrating her thoughts. “You’re doing so well. Keep going.”

She gripped him tightly, her fingernails sinking into his back like claws, clutching at him as if her life depended on him as she humped him.

I’m sorry, she told herself, apologising because she was about to pass the point of no return, and nothing and no one could stop her now. This was worse than when Nathaniel had fingered her and made her come. Now she was the one making herself come, proving that she wanted it.

“That’s it,” Nathaniel said, his voice raspy with desire. “Don’t stop. Show me what a good little slut you are as you hump your master’s leg.”

Fuck.

Her movements intensified, causing the armchair to squeak as she rocked back and forth against his solid length.

She needed more.

More.

Nathaniel’s eyes darkened, and as if he’d read her mind, he closed his hand over her throat, squeezing just enough to make her muscles scream yes.

Her vision grew blurry, her throat dry and breathing heavy as she approached nirvana.

Upholstered armchair.

Deep mahogany.

Thick solid wood.

Ivy vines…twisting, choking.

“Faster, slut,” Nathaniel commanded, squeezing her airway. “And be silent.”

A rose bud on the cusp of opening as thornless vines strangle it.

She was fucking delirious. She had to be, because she hated poetry.

Tears sprang to her eyes, rendering the room a wonderful swirling blur of stars as Nathaniel’s rough voice rumbled in her ear.