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“Get to it, then.”
Oh, I intend to. Tearing the condom wrapper, I roll it onto his dick and straddle him, sinking down until I’m fully impaled, my knees hugging his sides.
“Definitely a step in the right direction,” he gasps, his words cutting off as I swivel my hips. Yeah, he likes that.
Bracing my hands on his chest, I find my rhythm, grinning down at him. Merch’s hands come up, loosely gripping my wrists, holding them there. His eyes burn into mine as I bounce and swivel my hips. My breathing is coming out in harsh pants, and Merch’s nostrils are flaring, his mouth slightly open.
I know I’m supposed to be fucking his brains out, but this position is ah-mazing for me. Every time I swivel my hips, it grinds my clit against his pubic bone.
“Gonna make yourself come on me, kid?” He grins up at me. Glaring down at him, I grit my teeth.
“Yes.”
“Good. I wanna see you come apart as you ride me.”
His words are smooth velvet whiskey in a smoky bar; they are all I need to hear. Moaning, I keep swiveling my hips, finding the perfect rhythm to play myself like a fiddle.
“Oh, fuck Merch,” I gasp, my head tipping forward, my chin hitting my collarbones as I stiffen, an intense orgasm washing over me.
“Yeah, that’s a fucking beautiful sight.” It’s whispered, almost groaned, but I hear it. The second my muscles unlock and I tremble with post-orgasm shockwaves, I start bouncing again.
Caught unawares, Merch’s eyes widen in surprise, and his hands leave my wrists, gripping my hips as his own start bucking in time with my tempo. His breath blows out, and he grinds me down on his dick as he comes.
“How are your brains?” I murmur, slumping down on his chest. Merch’s arms snake around my, holding me against him, his lips moving in my hair.
“Nice and scrambled,” he rumbles, his chest vibrating beneath me as he speaks.
My eyes lock on some of his black tattoos, but I don’t get a chance to examine the ones on his pec, the sides of his abs, and his stomach because Merch is rolling me off him and vaulting off the bed.
Grabbing his clothes and tugging them on, he grins over at me where I’m lying, absolutely stoned and spent, blissed out on the bed.
“That’s exactly what I needed. See, you should always answer my booty texts.”
Smirking, I lazily flip him off as he holds his hand out. I slap my hand in his, letting him haul me to my feet and hand me my clothes.
Merch grips my elbow as I slide my panties and shorts on so I don’t fall over, and his eyes follow my shirt’s progress as it drops down, covering me up.
“Ah, that’s a pity,” he sighs. Flipping him off, I tug the coverlet until the bed looks presentable again, grinning up at him as Merch’s arm lands on my shoulders, and he steers me out of the room.
Marty and Kate are right where we left them, and Lucia has joined them, smirking and waggling her eyebrows at me as Merch guides me over, depositing me on the couch and walking away without a backward glance. I almost pout. I had been hoping for a kiss goodbye. I suppose that’s not in his playbook. Boo.
MERCH
I get all the way to the open front door before some preppy cunt tries to stop me.
“You weren’t invited,” he sneers, holding his red solo cup like a shield in front of him. I didn’t need to be. There’s no doorman.
I glare at the guy until he shrinks about two inches. Pussy ass motherfucker. Shoving past him, I stride out the glazed front doors and down the flagged stone path, back to my rig and away from Shelley’s wannabe rebel party. A bit of weed and alcohol in some mansion? Amateur hour.
The clubhouse has descended into debauchery by the time I walk back in. Lisa and Palmer have bailed. No surprises there. Rattler is still on the couch, eating Trish out while Paige sucks his dick. Good for him.
The hang around behind the bar looks over eagerly when I step up to it, rapping my knuckles on the wood.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I point to the bottle I want, and he quickly pours a glass, passing it over to me. With Rattler prospecting, this kid will be hoping he gets similar treatment. Good luck with that.
Weaving through the swaying groupies, brothers getting blow jobs and people chatting and drinking, I drop into one of the leather armchairs near that cunt Fenton’s mounted rig, sipping my whiskey.
Almost immediately, Dahlia appears, smirking, flipping her hair, and dropping into my lap, grinding down on my exhausted cock.
