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I sit up, eager to return the favor, but Savage stops me. His breathing ragged, he pulls off my shirt, and then his briefs, letting his big, thick cock spring to freedom. And just when I’m about to ask him if he’s got a condom, he flips me over, rather forcefully, pulls me onto all fours, and starts eating me from behind.
“Condom,” I choke out.
“Don’t need it,” he murmurs. “I’m only gonna eat you.”
I’m shocked to hear it. But not disappointed. I relax into it, now that I know he’s not planning to plow into me, uncovered. And quickly, my body ramps up, again. Savage is voracious back there. Fucking me with his fingers while licking and eating and biting and sucking every inch of me with his mouth. And by that, I mean, really and truly, every damned inch of me.
It takes me a little while to get there again, simply because it seems like he keeps pulling back, right when I’m about to release. Over and over again, he gets me right to the edge of orgasm, and pulls back. Is he doing that intentionally? Teasing me? Torturing me? Finally, thank God, he brings me right to the edge, yet again, but this time, exuberantly pushes my pleasure overboard. And when I finally come, something unexpected happens to me. Something that’s never happened before. Fluid squirts out of me during my orgasm. As intense pleasure grips me, I scream, unable to contain the rapture I’m feeling and way too drunk to care if someone in this big house might overhear me.
When my body-quaking, squirting orgasm subsides, Savage turns me over onto my back again, looking positively feral. Breathing hard, he lies next me on his back and pulls at my arm.
“Sit on my face,” he commands breathlessly.
“Savage,” I gasp out. “Get a condom. I want you to fuck me.”
“Sit on my face, Laila. Now.”
Trembling, I do as I’m told, and when I lower myself onto his mouth, the pleasure feels supernatural. I lean forward as I ride his face, stroking his gorgeous, hard cock with my hand, and he moans his appreciation underneath me in reply. I look down and see his chin as it moves. My eyes drift to his chest and abs, and then to the tip of his cock peeking out of my hand. It’s dripping with arousal now. So, I lean forward, slowly, allowing his mouth to keep up. And then, as he continues eating me from behind, I take his hard, dripping cock into my mouth and get to work, causing him to jolt and jerk and groan with pleasure.
We’re absolutely going for it. Both of us. Losing our minds. Not holding back. And when I finally have an orgasm against Savage’s mouth, he growls and has one, too—gushing his release into my mouth in a shockingly warm and salty torrent that fills my mouth to the brim.
My brain understands it’s time to swallow him down, of course. But, as it turns out, commanding my throat to swallow while having an orgasm isn’t in the cards. At least, not when the volume of Savage’s release is this big.
As my eyes roll back into my head and my body warps with violent waves of pleasure, Savage’s cum dribbles out my mouth and down my chin, and then, partially, onto his stomach. When I’m finally released from my rapture, I lower myself down and lick up my mess from his stomach, like a kitten licking up spilled milk off the floor. And when I’m done, and all traces of Savage’s orgasm are gone, I continue licking and sucking on every inch of him, simply because he tastes so damned good.
Midway through kissing his abs, I freeze, suddenly feeling a dramatic shift in my body’s equilibrium. When the room tilts sharply, I get up and stand at the edge of the bed, trying to right the ship. But it’s no use. I think I’m gonna be sick.
“Come here, Fitzy,” he coos. “I’m not even close to done with your pussy yet.”
Murmuring something incoherent, I turn and bolt to the bathroom, drop to my knees before the toilet, and lose the entire contents of my stomach into the bowl: however many tequila shots and beers, a lovely meal of chicken, rice, and grilled vegetables . . . and a shocking deluge of salty cum I sucked out of the famous donkey dick attached to the sexiest man alive, Mr. Adrian Fucking Savage.
Thirty-One
Savage
“Oh, honey,” Aloha says as Laila shuffles into Reed’s expansive kitchen in the late morning light, looking like dogshit that’s been stepped in twice. And it’s not hard to surmise what’s elicited the reaction. Laila’s sandy hair is a mess on top of her head. Her normally glowing skin is pale and lifeless. She’s got dark circles under her eyes and her sultry lips, usually dewy and sumptuous, are dry and pinched with her misery.
