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I am shaking with desire. “In my pussy, in my ass. I don’t care. Wherever you want to put it; just FUCK meeeeeeee.” He steps away from me, tells me not to move. I glance over my shoulder, watch him as he walks over to the tray on the table. Watch him as he digs his hand into the plastic bag and scoops out a handful of half-melted ice.
“One good turn deserves another,” he says, walking back over to me with ice water dripping through his fingers. My body tenses in anticipation. He cups my right titty and shoves his cock into my pussy, hard—pushes it in all the way until I cry out; pain and pleasure escaping from the back of my throat. I press my ass into him, spread my legs. I want him. Oh how I want him! “I’m going to fuck you until you pass out, whore,” he says in my ear; his words harsh and raspy. He pulls out, yanks me by my hair, pulling me away from the wall. “Bend over.”
I bend over.
He slaps my ass, hard. Slaps it again. Sharp stings pulsate to my clit. “Pull open your ass.”
I pull it open. And he rams his dick into the back of my pussy, pushing what’s left of the dripping ice into my asshole. He is rough and determined. I squirm and yelp.
“Don’t run now,” he says, stuffing my ass. “Take what you give.” I let out a load moan. My heated pussy gets hotter as the ice freezes and numbs the walls in my ass. The contrasting sensations drive me over the edge.
“Oh yes...uhhhhh...fuuuuuccccck me...”
Like a wild animal, I grunt and growl and greedily gulp his dick in with my pussy, winding and pumping my hips. I reach in back of me. Pull him into me by the back of his thighs. Dig my nails into his flesh.
He hits my spot; he can feel it. I can feel it: an orgasm swelling. He continues pounding me, fucking me deep and hard and fast. I am losing myself to his rapid thrusts, losing myself to his sweet, merciless fucking. My body shakes. My knees wobble. And I come hard, wet, dripping; coating his cock, soaking his balls, my thighs, the floor.
Porsha
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The minute I walk through the door, I realize that I have no business being here. That being here could become potentially problematic—for whom, I’m not sure. But that is what I was feeling when Emerson called me this morning and asked me to meet him at the Sheraton for a late lunch. “I only wanna talk” is what he said to me.
“We can talk over the phone,” I shot back, replaying Persia’s conversation she said she’d ha
d with him. She asked Paris and me to ignore his calls, and delete his number. Paris said she would. I was silently reluctant, but agreed to as well. A part of me did want to see him, shit... and fuck him again, too. Still, I resisted, fought to keep him at bay; partly out of loyalty to Persia for wanting to dismiss him, even though I wasn’t ready to. And I don’t think Paris wanted to either. Then again, it probably didn’t matter to her one way or another. She usually just goes with the flow. But, I wanted to keep him around a little longer. Shit, I like...uh, liked him. There was something different about him. Oh, well. Anyway, the three of us have a pact. Whatever men we each bring into our space, if we say they have to go, then we each respect it. And out they go. And we never, ever, go behind the other’s backs to see them, again; no matter what, especially when he isn’t someone one of us has brought into our circle ourselves. That’s what we agreed upon. Well, that’s what Persia suggested we do. And, thus far, that’s what we’ve done. So hearing Emerson telling me he wanted to see me, today. That what he had to say was not something he wanted to say over the phone had sparked my curiosity, to say the least. Still, my allegiance to the pact forced me to push out, “I can’t.”
He sighed. “Yo, don’t give me that. You can do whatever you want. What, you scared of Persia finding out or something?”
I frowned. “I’m a grown-ass woman,” I snapped with attitude. “I do what I want, when I want. Persia is my sister. Not my keeper.”
“I can’t tell.”
“Think what you like,” I retorted.
“Well, then, let’s talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“Porsha, c’mon. You’ve known me for over seven months. Have I ever called you asking to see you alone?”
I thought about his question for a moment. Mmmm. Now that I sit here and think about it, he’s never called me; only texted. “No, I can’t say that you have.”
“Exactly. So all I’m asking for is an hour of your time. That’s it. Is that too much to ask?”
“Why can’t you take no for an answer, and leave it at that?”
“Why should I?”
“Look, Persia told us all about the chick you feeling, so what we need to talk about?”
“Listen. I don’t wanna get into this over the phone. I’ma be at the Sheraton over on Frontage Road at two. I wanna talk. That’s all I’m asking. At least hear me out. I’ll be there until three o’clock. If you don’t show up, then I won’t bother you again. Don’t let me down.”
“I’m not coming.” I told him flat out. And at the time those words left my mouth, I meant them. Yet, here I am—sitting across from his sexy-ass at The Bar, sipping on my second drink two weeks after his phone conversation with Persia, staring into his dreamy eyes like I don’t have a care in the world.
“Sooooo,” I ask, eyeing him over the rim of my drink. “What’s so urgent that you needed to say it to me in person instead of telling me over the phone?”
He smiles, eyeing me back. “I wanted to see you.”
