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“Why not?”
“They’re a hassle I don’t care for. Answer the question. Are you?”
“No,” I whisper and hope he takes it as if I’m too overwhelmed with sensations, not something else.
I think it works, because he’s pushing his knee between my thighs. “Open your legs.”
It’s nearly impossible to do so with his presence at my back, possessing me, holding me hostage, but I manage to shuffle my legs a little.
Still holding my nape with one hand, his other one reaches under my dress and I release a gasp when he cups my needy core.
“Fuck. You came ready.”
My nerve endings pulse at the arousal in his tone, at how absolutely sinful he sounds when he’s taken off guard.
And he’s right, I did come ready and he’s touching my bare pussy right now. When I made the decision to forgo panties, I thought I would have a quickie and go home. That’s still the plan.
But something tells me he won’t honor my plan. He’ll bulldoze through it, shred it apart, and feed it to me, won’t he? It’s that intensity of his that I feel with every brush of his skin on mine.
Intensity can’t be planned. Which is why I shouldn’t have chosen him. But I did, and I couldn’t stop this even if I wanted to.
And a deep part of me rejects that option anyway.
“Are you perhaps an escort?” He slides his fingers against my wet folds, making them wetter and more sensitive. “But you would’ve said that if you were, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe I’m doing pro bono work tonight.”
I meant it as a jab, but he chuckles again. It’s unnerving, how charming he can get, even though he has sharp edges. It’s not supposed to be like this. Charming people don’t have the intensity of the men I’ve known my entire life.
And the combination of both is dangerous, terrifying even.
But my body doesn’t seem to care about that fact, because the moment he thrusts a finger inside me, I go on my tiptoes, stifling a moan.
“You have a mouth on you,” he rasps, driving his finger deeper.
“Yeah, and I’m not afraid to use it.” Not really, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Does that mean you’ll choke on my dick and let me come down that pretty throat?”
I choke, but it’s on my barely existent drool. I’m thinking of a comeback when he thrusts an additional finger and tightens his hold on my nape.
I go still, afraid to move or even breathe. Holy fucking shit. It’s full, so full that I think I’ll burst with the sensation. I’ve done this to myself before, but it’s never felt this…overwhelming.
It’s only two fingers.
Hisfingers that are as hard and sharp as the man himself. But what makes my arousal worse is how he grabs my neck as if he has every right to, how he presses on my pulse point, controlling my shaky, chopped breathing.
“Here’s a tip, I don’t like talkers,” he says casually as he pounds his fingers into me, scissoring and crisscrossing them in rhythm with my shaky inhales and exhales.
“T-too bad; you…g-got one…”
“Looks like I’m not doing it hard enough if you’re still able to speak.” He drives another finger inside and I shriek, the sound piercing the deafening silence of the hotel room.
If I thought I was full before, I’m bursting right now. And that sensation, the thought that he’s so deep inside me that I’m about to explode with him, is enough to make me orgasm.
It’s savage and merciless, just like him, like that expression in his eyes that I can’t look into, because I’m broken and can’t make eye contact.
But I don’t have to look to feel the pleasurable wave, to bask in every second of it, in every minuscule detail and every long, deep thrust of his fingers. They’re still driving into me, elongating the orgasm, making it ten times wilder.
