“Are you sure,” he asked, taking a step closer.
Was I sure? No, I wasn’t sure of anything, other than the sadness I still felt in my heart for Brent’s death and the desire to make those responsible for his death pay with their lives.
I said, “Yes, I’m sure. Come inside.”
He tucked his phone back into his pocket and came inside. I closed the door and leaned back against it. Before I even knew what was happening, I was in his arms, pressing my lips to his.
I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him. My arms went around his neck and his hands went around to my ass. He clenched my ass cheeks in his hands and lifted me off the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on tight as he carried me to the bedroom without breaking the kiss.
He lowered me to the floor at the foot of my bed. My arms were still around his neck and his hands were still on my ass. His tongue pushed through my lips to probe into my mouth. When the tip of my tongue touched his, I felt a shudder of excitement shoot through my body, as if I’d stuck my tongue into a light socket. My nipples sprang to life and the heat that had been building in my cunt for the past hour gave way to a flood that drenched my panties.
“I want you,” he growled in my ear. “Do you want me?”
“Yes,” I moaned. “I want you.”
“Tell me,” he whispered, teeth nipping at my earlobe. “Tell me you want me to fuck your sweet pussy with my big cock.”
A dirty talker… I kind of liked that… Brent never said a word when we made love, other than to ask if brought a towel.
“I want you to fuck my sweet pussy with your big cock,” I said, my lips on his neck. “Please. Now.”
He was pulling me into him, grinding my cunt into the thick bulge in his pants. Dry humping, we called it in high school. I could remember one boy cumming in his pants as he rubbed his cock against my cunt. He was so embarrassed that he ran way, leaving me with wet panties and no idea what to do about it. I knew now what to do. I hadn’t had much practice, but I knew I didn’t want Rick cumming in his jeans. I wanted him to cum inside me.
My fingers found his belt buckle as he tugged the black t-shirt over his head. Hit shoulders and chest were thick with muscle, covered with tribal tattoos that ran up his arms and disappeared over his shoulders and onto his back. My hands went to his chest. My fingers brushed his nipples, hard as little pebbles on the roundness of his chest.
“Let me do that,” he said, pushing my hands from his belt. “You get those fucking clothes off and get on the bed. If I don’t fuck you soon I’m gonna pop.”
I hesitated for a moment as my pussy started arguing with my brain. Don’t do this, my brain screamed. This is not what you want. You want revenge. You want him dead. You can do it. Get the gun. Shoot him. Kill him. Do it now!
“Something wrong?” he asked, his hands frozen on this belt.
“No, nothing,” I said. “Um, but you get into bed. I have to use the bathroom.”
“Don’t be long,” he said. He pushed his pants and underwear down his muscled legs. His long cock sprang free. I swallowed hard as I looked at it. It was twice as long as any cock I’d ever seen in person. Ten to twelve inches, thick and girthy, with large veins that ran from shaft to tip.
“My cock is ready for your pussy,” he said, taking his cock in his hand and slowly stroking it back and forth. The head was round, like a mushroom. It blossomed as he pumped the blood into it.
I couldn’t help but lick my lips as I stared wide-eyed at his cock. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to take it in my mouth. I wanted it in my pussy. Almost as much as I wanted him dead.
I looked around for my purse. I’d left it on the floor inside the door. I put my hand around his cock and gave it a tug. It felt massive in my hand, like a warm, fleshy lead pipe. I fought the urge to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth. I said, “You and your friend get into bed. I’ll just be back in a minute.”
“Don’t be long,” he said, breathing hard. I released my grip on his cock and he climbed into bed while I went to retrieve my purse from the foyer where I’d dropped it.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Point. Aim. Shoot.
I scooped up my purse and went back into the bedroom. Rick was lying on my bed, spread eagle, one hand behind his head, the other stroking his monster cock. It jutted from the patch of dark curls like the trunk of a thick oak tree with a mushrooming top.
“I’ll just be back in a minute,” I said as I went into the bathroom and closed the door. The moment the door closed I thought I was going to pass out. I was suddenly nauseous again. I could taste vomit on the back of my throat. My hands were shaking. A cold sweat washed over my forehead.
I set the purse on the sink and stuck my hand inside it. I brought out the .357 and stared at it for a moment. The dull gray metal was cold in my hand. I took it by the rubber grip and bounced it in my hand. I tried to remember everything Brent had taught me about firing the pistol the time he took me to the gun range to shoot it.
Grip it in your right hand. Firm, not too tight.
Cup your left hand under your right for balance and to keep your hand steady.
It’s a revolver. You just point and shoot.