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“What do you think?” I uncomfortably ask from the area near my side of the sink. “Too much? Do I look like I’m trying too hard? Am I trying too hard?”
“Beautiful, you’re about to spend the afternoon stomping on grapes, eating dinner, and drinking wine with my parents, my cousins, and our best friends, not trying to seduce the pope.”
His playful comment immediately receives a glare in the mirror.
“You look the same as you always do.”
There’s a twitch of uncertainty in my expression.
“Perfecta.”
The tone combined with the predatory glint in his eye tells me he’s going to say it in Irish next.
“Foirfeachta.”
“You’re gonna say it in English now, aren’t you?” I ask as he creeps closer to me from behind.
“No, I’m gonna show it in body language, mi linda.”
Time to think or counter his movements isn’t allotted. One minute I’m preparing to protest that this is not on the day’s itinerary and the next I’m pitilessly pinned over the sink, palms pressed tightly against the mirror for leverage with Tate’s cock anxiously piercing my pussy from behind.
I feel obligated to remind him that we don’t have time for this.
That someone – anyone – could be ringing our doorbell any minute.
That I just cleaned this fucking mirror.
And yet the most I manage to embarrassingly moan out is, “Don’t get cum on my dress.”
My boyfriend’s hot, arrogant chortle is attached to a sharp thrust that causes my hard nipples to scrape against the counter in a back-arching fashion. “Don’t worry, álainn.” Another tit grazing hit is delivered. “I’ll only get it inside you.” Our eyes lock momentarily in the glass surface. “Like always.”
His egotistical smirk I eat up with a fucking spoon is the last thing I see before my hooded eyes fall completely shut.
Unrestrained bucking backward into his turbulent bounces has my body bizarrely bending and knees knocking into the cabinets below the sink. While thoughts of how unattractive and undeniably awkward I look filter throughout my mind, they’re all very minor and even more momentary. Becoming lost to the lascivious grating of fabric against my clit that’s caused by my bunched-up thong being used to pull my ass down his ruthlessly diving dick is what leads the charge away from caring how I may look to being enraptured with how I feel.
How Tate always makes me feel whether we’re in or out of the bedroom.
Moans from me grow in quantity but not in volume due to the desperation to hear him groaning and grumbling his pleasure in multiple languages. My favorite dirty phrases about getting pregnant and being his dirty, little cum queen pour from his perfect lips around heavy grunts that are given on ravenous rams. Feeling my sopping wet pussy smash against the base of his cock split seconds before his other hand delivers a bawdy spank to my ass becomes the ideal one-two punch combo to enter climax city. Not ready for it all to end prompts my nails into clawing the surface for more time and my recently pedicured toes to follow suit. Shakes are restrained to the best of their ability. Soaked squeezes of his shaft are slowed down in hopes of prolonging the inevitable. Occasional head whips are executed to counter the carnal commands that I stop holding back and come like he wants.
Needs.
Friction builds and builds and builds as the damp fabric is tenaciously rasped against my swollen nub, promising to let me erupt if it’s just given a few more rubs.
A few more well-timed strokes.
And those impeccably timed strokes are paired to merciless thrusts that tear the tight muscles in two.
That split me wide open and keep me open for the fucking.
The filling.
And more fucking.
An orgasm innocently enters the scene sending me spiraling towards what I ignorantly believe is the end only to have the sensations spark an inhuman response in the man whose name I can’t scream enough. His abrupt abandonment of holding on the material he’s over stretched is followed by him winding his arms completely around my torso. Trapping me to his chest. Tugging and yanking me into demoniacal plunges at the same time his blistering breath burns the shell of my ear with so much filth that I don’t know whether to baulk or come again.
One hand creeps up until it’s curled around my throat, which is where it clamps down on a sexually chomped, “Otra vez para mi.”
The Spanish command to come again isn’t instantly met, but it’s close enough to fucking call it. Every muscle in the lower half of my body writhes out of control, contracting and constricting and coiling as though every cell in my system is having its own individual climax. Screaming is what I want to do yet can’t. All I’m physically capable of is a choked sob, and that sound…that weak, submissive sound, breaks Tate’s dam. Torrid rushes rip through my pulsating pussy, painting the territory white and whispering to it the same promises his mouth is whispering into my neck.
