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“I’m so sorry Mimi is sick,” I say softly.
Without replying to my comment, Savage pulls me to him and kisses me deeply, with such depth of feeling, such passion, he takes my breath away. Without hesitation, I slide onto his lap and straddle him, kissing him sensuously. Finally, when we break free of our kiss, Savage looks flustered. Flushed. Disoriented. Beautiful. If he’d been born hundreds of years ago in Italy, I’d have no trouble believing he was Michelangelo’s inspiration for David.
“I know for our first date I’m supposed to feed you first and fuck you on the kitchen table second,” Savage says, his voice husky with arousal. “But I’m going to have to turn off the heat on the soup now and flip the script.”
Eight
Savage
After turning off the burner on the stove, I return to Laila at the kitchen table. Practically panting with desire, I peel off her clothes, lay her naked body onto the table, and open her smooth thighs wide, until her glorious pussy is opened to me and her pink clit is calling out to be licked like a lollipop. With my mouth watering and my cock rock-hard, I lean down and get to work, eating Laila enthusiastically, with fervent swirls and swipes of my tongue and voracious movements of my lips. And all this while stroking her with my fingers and groaning and growling like a wild animal devouring his prey.
“Savage,” Laila purrs. “Adrian. Oh, God.” She arches her back and comes undone against my tongue in the best possible way, screaming and howling as her orgasm throttles her.
“God, I love that you’re a screamer,” I choke out, enthralled by the sounds of Laila’s ecstasy.
When Laila’s body goes slack and her screams die down, I grab a condom out of a nearby drawer—one of the many I stashed there while Laila was still changing her clothes earlier—and after getting myself covered, I rest Laila’s calves on my shoulders, pin her wrists against the wooden table, and plunge myself inside her, balls deep. As my tip slams her farthest reaches, we both moan with relief and excitement. As I start thrusting, and my tip slams her repeatedly, Laila grunts and moans with each and every movement.
It’s a special kind of bliss, fucking Laila on this table. Knowing I’m going to be fucking her every day for the next three months. Knowing she’s mine, all mine, at least for now. Finally. It feels so good to be railing Laila, in fact, after not too long, I have to slow my thrusts, and then pause altogether, to keep myself from coming too quickly. Nobody feels as good as this woman. Nobody tastes as good. Nobody looks as good. She’s in a league of her own, in every way.
I didn’t know I could feel quite this turned on—like I’m literally under a spell. As I pause with myself inside her, I massage her clit, slowly, methodically, relentlessly—and then resume fucking her, also slowly—while whispering dirty-talk to her. I tell her she feels amazing. Tastes amazing. That her tits are incredible. Her body perfect. Until, finally, Laila comes again, this time with my entire cock buried inside her, all the way. And there’s no way to describe the ecstasy I feel as her body milks mine.
Somehow, I manage to hang on by the barest of threads through Laila’s orgasm. I run my palms over her splayed body as she moans and writhes, and then begin fucking her, much harder. Harder and harder, I fuck her, my thoughts spiraling along with my pleasure. Why didn’t Laila come to my room in Vegas, or any other city after that? Why didn’t she break up with Malik in New York, when she knew I wanted her? Yeah, I mentioned Kendrick on that sidewalk, but Laila’s not stupid. She knew I wanted her for myself. She knew. And she picked Malik over me. I slam her, over and over again, angry with myself for not saying what needed to be said back then. For not saying what needs to be said now. Fuck! I’ve wanted this woman so badly, for so long, but there’s always something or someone standing in my way! Well, now I’m going to make her want me, as badly as I want her, even if I have to fuck her into submission. Even if I have to make her addicted to fucking me to get what I want.
When I’m on the cusp of losing it, I pull out and turn Laila around, bend her over the kitchen table, grab a fistful of her thick, sandy hair, and with one hand lodged against her scalp and the other reaching around to massage her clit in slow circles, I fuck my woman raw, with deep, unapologetic thrusts that make it impossible for her not to scream.
