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When we surface we’re still kissing, hungry as if it’s our first time.
I want to fuck her so bad it’s like I’ve never done it yet. Maybe I haven’t, because my attention was divided before—I want it all focused on Sabrina.
I pull her down on my cock, sliding inside her beneath the water, her legs wrapped around my waist, her arms around my neck.
The water slows my pace, it makes me fuck her steady and deep, each stroke bobbing her a little in and out of the water, her breasts floating on the surface.
We’re weightless together, rotating in the water, the endless view of the ocean swapping positions with the ornate facade of the hotel.
There’s no friction between us, both of us slick as seals. It feels good, but it won’t be enough to make Sabrina cum.
Carrying her over to the steps out of the pool, I sit on the lowest stair, turning Sabrina around so she’s sitting on my lap with her back against my chest. I grip my cock and slide it back inside her, parting her legs so her calves are hooked around the outside of my thighs.
With her thighs spread wide open, her clit is exposed. I reach around with my hand, rubbing her clit with the flat of my fingers, thrusting up inside her so the head of my cock rubs against her from the inside, my hand on the outside.
With my other hand, I pluck and tease her nipples, moving back and forth between her breasts.
Sabrina is trapped in place on top of me, legs spread open, chest exposed. She’s a butterfly pinned to a mat, all her beauty on full display for anyone to see. I wish I had a camera set up in front of her.
Her clit is fully exposed, almost too sensitive to touch. She gasps and squirms, but I keep her legs spread wide over mine, my fingers relentlessly stroking that little nub as it gets firmer and warmer, engorging with blood in much the same way as my cock inside her.
Sabrina is panting, rocking her hips in the limited range of motion she can manage.
She reaches back with both hands, cupping the back of my head, thrusting her fingers into my hair, scratching her nails against my scalp. I turn my mouth toward her, sucking on the side of her neck, sucking hard and rough, not giving a fuck if I mark her. I WANT to mark her. I want to leave a bruise that lasts for a month.
With every thrust, I stroke her clit—short, steady rubs that imitate the sensation of her riding on top of me, the way her clit rubs against my lower stomach. That’s what made her cum hardest last night.
I imagine how good this would look on camera, to put Sabrina in this position and fuck her like this, spread wide open, put on display.
The thought is so erotic that I can feel my balls swelling, even in the cold water.
I bounce her harder on my cock, pressing against her clit with my hand, listening to her gasps and moans as they grow deeper, more frantic
“Right there,” she groans, “that’s the spot … hit it … hit it … hit it …ahhhhhhhhhh!”
The sound of her cumming makes me explode. My balls squeeze like a fist and I erupt inside of her, spurt after spurt that feels hotter than lava in the chilly pool.
She’s light and floating in my arms. It’s easy to turn her around to face me, to kiss her again, the taste of arousal thick in her mouth, her body limp and warm as she curls up against me, her head on my shoulder.
The sun bathes us both, the water laps against us and the waves crash far below.
All I can think is how glad I am that she came back.
* * *
9
SABRINA
It takes several more attempts for Adrik and me to actually put our clothes on. We fuck again in the shower, and once more on the bed, so ineffective at making ourselves presentable that it’s almost dinner time before we’re fit to leave the hotel.
We each buy a fresh outfit at the shops along Stradun, Old Town’s main street.
Adrik is now wearing a loose linen shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, with his same battered jeans. The shirt should make him look casual and summery, but it doesn’t.
Adrik’s features—like the markings on certain husky dogs—always seem to be scowling. His narrow blue eyes and thick black brows are ferocious, his body language so pugnacious that he could never resemble anything as benign as a tourist.
His charm can be disarming, but the moment he’s not smiling at me, or turning me into putty with those dangerously talented hands of his, I remember that he’s Bratva and that he ran train at Kingmakers long before any of my cousins showed up. There’s a ferocity to him, an edge of viciousness I like.
