Page 229 of Filthy Truth


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As I swallowed her moan, I let my dick trace down her slit and encouraged her to pause as I fed the tip into her. When she took me, slowly, inch by inch, we groaned into each other’s mouths.

Gravity helped settle her around me, as did the natural rocking of the car as we drove over a pothole. Thanking fuck for how goddamn slow traffic was in Manhattan, I gripped her outer thighs and encouraged her to ride me.

She was frantic—all jerky, rocky movements as she tried to find her release. Then, I ran the outer edge of my thumb over her clit and she bucked on top of me, stilling, freezing, imploding around me.

The suddenness stunned me, but I urged her on, not for myself, just so that she could ride out the pleasure, wanting it to flood her, needing it to overwhelm her. Needing to give that to her when she gave me so fucking much, more than she even knew.

When her pussy stopped clutching at me, that was when I moved faster. Bucking from underneath, taking my own pleasure now that hers was complete.

As I exploded into her, she cupped my face and started kissing me. Her hunger for me as powerful as ever.

Coming down was painful but only because the high was so sharp, so fucking sweet.

When she sagged into me and started dotting kisses on my forehead, at the corners of my mouth, and on my chin, I whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Showing you.”

My brows lifted. “What are you showing me?”

But even as I asked the question, I already knew the answer.

“How much I love you.”

Slipping my arms around her waist, I hugged her hard, burying my face into her chest, loving her and needing her and feeling so fucking happy that I didn’t even care about the tux or Carmen or two hours of opera torture anymore.

With her tits smothering me, I mumbled, “I’ll wear the bow tie.”

Her laughter was soft, tinkling. So unlike Star that it was as if I had another woman on my lap. But it wasn’t. It was her.

Mine.

Always fucking mine.

“How do you manage to make everything better?” she whispered, her fingers stroking over my hair.

Another woman and I’d have retreated. Cringed. Instead, I burrowed into her touch. “I don’t.”

“Lies.”

“Do you have a game plan for the aftermath of this?”

“I’m wearing panties, plus my skirt is long and black and lined.”

“I don’t want to ruin the dress. I haven’t even seen you in it. Plus, it’ll be my pants that are ruined, not your skirts.”

“Not ruined. Maybe it’ll make it better.”

I laughed. “Depends on what your idea of fashion is, I guess.”

“You could set a trend.” Her nose nuzzled into mine. “Do you care if people know what we’ve been doing?”

“Not really.”

“Then, what’s the problem?”

“No problem,” I said with a sigh as she snagged my white handkerchief from my top pocket and quickly shimmied me out of her then pressed the folded fabric between her legs, tucking her panties back into place.

“There, no stains,” she crowed as she zipped me up.

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