The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

She works that little mouth on overtime, her throat vibrating with a hot moan begging for my come. All while her hand pumps the base of my cock, stroking me with a quickening need that feels violent.

This is how it’ll be with us, I realize.

Our sex is more than satisfying an animal desire. It’s a chance to talk out our issues—whatever the fuck they are—in flesh and sweat and unbridled feeling.

Pushing my hand over hers, I nudge it to my balls, which lurch up against the base of my shaft.

Fuck, how much more can I take?

A vision of her pretty face wearing my eruption lashes through my brain.

Shel’s too nice for a facial.

I cannot imagine her face plastered like a slut with my come—but the thought of marking her that way shears me in half.

When I feel the edges of her teeth gently needling my skin as she dives over my dick, I know I’m lost.

The friction feels too good.

I grasp her head as a groan rumbles up my throat like sandpaper on busted pavement.

“You gonna take my come?” I rasp, laying my hands on each side of her head, catching those fever-green eyes.

Her lips slide up, over the head of my cock again in answer as her eyelids flutter shut. A hand moves between her legs.

“Play with your clit, baby,” I order.

Her moan flutters with delight.

“Go,” I grind out, barely recognizing my own voice. “Fuck your fingers when I paint your face.”

She whimpers louder, the sound adding to the mad heat swarming my cock.

I’m about to die—and apparently I’m fated to check out of this life as the happiest man alive.

“Shel,” I whisper, trying like hell to hold back just a little longer, but she’s already working that mouth deeper, her brow creased with focus and building ecstasy.

Her hand grips me more firmly, massaging me to hell and back.

A relentless fire lights up my spine like nothing I’ve ever known. And when my abs bend from the sinful agony, the hot rush purring in my blood, I’m all out of prayers.

I give the fuck in with a roar.

“Shel!”

She sputters softly as my cock balloons in her mouth, a signal to thrust those pert lips down one more time, struggling to take even half of me.

Her sharp little moan of delight is the last thing I feel before I’m over six feet of burning man.

Short breaths. Wild grunts. Inferno.

Everywhere, burning.

My vertebrae sing like some demented piano keys, ecstasy stabbing its long fingers into them till I’m stock-still, grounded, exiting her mouth on the third jerking pump of my cock.

I barely get my fist around it in time to launch several heaving ropes on her face.

Call me Pablo fucking Picasso.