I take him in, my pussy tingly and achy at the same time. Zings of awareness travel through me, and the deeper he goes in, the stronger that sensation becomes. Shit. Neither of us is even moving yet and I’m already bothered. Oh, so, so bothered…
“It’s my birthday,” he says. “Fuck me, naughty girl.” And then, he winks. The man winks! It’s a playful, slight wink that does things to my insides. My heart takes flight.
I can’t let him down.
I move my hips from side to side, slowly at first, then I undulate them like there’s an invisible hula hoop around my waist. He groans, his eyes on mine, his gaze undressing me in a way that’s much more erotic than anything he’s ever done. The way he stares at me so intently, with so much purpose, has me wondering… can he access all my secrets? Are we sharing a dangerous, seductive, silent conversation?
Feels that way.
I intensify my moves, and now rock my hips back and forth. He’s so big and hard, I can’t help but enjoy this overwhelming sense of completion—of possession. Of claim. Like even though I’m riding him, even though I’m dictating the pace and the rhythm, his cock is running the show. He is running the show.
What if… what if he loves me too?
“That’s right, baby. Work that pussy.” He cups my breasts bringing them together, then squeezes my nipples. I throw my head back, and ride him faster, the thought coloring my mind like a neon pink highlighter pen. What if he loves me? Maybe he can… maybe he will.
He flicks my clit, and just like that, pressure builds in my sex and after a squeeze, my world explodes. I come, my body shaking, and he keeps on working my clit with one hand, caressing my breast with the other. Giving me no way out of this smoke of lust that fogs my brain and makes my eyesight blurry.
My body is barely recovering, the spasms winding down, when he flips me around, puts me on all fours and rams into my pussy from behind. I moan, and my core is all tingly again, the mist of post-sex haze and sparks of a recent thrust tensing my muscles.
He slides midway, then drives all the way to the hilt again, so deep my body jerks forward, my head bobbing. Oh, yes. I mellow, sweat running down my limbs, my internal temperature going through the roof.
“Fuck, naughty girl. You’re the best gift I could ever get.”
His words push me over the edge again, and I come—this time, it’s fast and explosive. I can barely hold myself on all fours, and he must sense that, because he pushes the small of my back down, so my face is buried in the pillow, and he lifts my ass up.
Then he continues fucking me, with hard, deep, amazing thrusts, until he lets go and comes.
“You didn’t haveto do this,” I say for the second time.
She looks at me, then sends a worried glance to the oven. “Oh, please. What kind of birthday doesn’t have a cake?”
I shrug. “We could go out and eat and have dessert. I’m not ten years old.”
She chuckles. “It’s not the same.”
Riley insisted on going to a grocery shop, making good use of her translation app to buy the ingredients and for the past hour, she has been fumbling in the kitchen to bake me a cake.
She looks adorable, wearing jean shorts and a purple sleeveless t-shirt that couldn’t have cost more than twenty bucks. She doesn’t need much to look devastatingly beautiful. My heart aches in my chest.
I told her we’d take one day at a time when we return to Texas, which will happen tomorrow morning. Is that what I want? Hell no.
What I want is to bottle her. To trap her in a gilded cage and never let her out. I can’t, though. Wouldn’t be fair to her. Besides, we need to take things slowly. How about work? How about Alex?
Alex made a lot of mistakes, but he’s my son. I love him. I need to wait until he’s dating someone else and with his mind off Riley to even broach the subject with him. Whether he still cares for her or not, he won’t like to know I’m dating her.
If he’s distracted, he won’t care anymore. After all, I dated younger women before. Sure, none of them were his former girlfriends.
My phone buzzes. I’m sure it’s one of my friends texting me. I don’t pick it up.
“Why don’t you pick it up?” she asks, removing a chocolate cake from the oven, the smoke swirling around her. Smells good. “Are you worried it may be some hook-up? Sylvia?” she puts the cake on the dish, and removes her gloves, then she perches her hands at her waist like she’s waiting for an answer.
I smile. “I didn’t know you were the jealous type.”
She snorts. “I am not. I am just saying, I know how, hmmm, popular you are and I wouldn’t be surprised if you got messages on your birthday. Or nudes.”