Right (Wrong 2)

“Turn around,” he orders me. “Hands on the wall.”

I pivot around, my legs still trapped mid-thigh by the underwear, and rest my palms against the wall. My heart races in the darkness, my thighs damp, my ears straining to make up for the lack of sight. I hear the crinkle of a wrapper and the brush of fabric as he wraps himself. Then the skirt portion of my dress is flipped over my back and his hands are firm on my hips, his fingers squeezing solidly into my skin. He drags me backward a foot until I’m bent over, hands on the wall and ass up.

His feet are bracketing mine, the fabric of his slacks smooth against my bare legs. He has to bend to line up. I can feel the friction of the fabric against my legs before I feel him at my entrance. He nudges inside of me, and I moan softly. I love the feeling of him being inside of me, even an inch. He slides both hands forward, his palms warm against my stomach, fingers interwoven, and then he lifts me to the tips of my toes and thrusts deep at the same time.

I gasp and call out his name, my palms pressing against the wall securely to keep my balance.

“You okay?”

I breathe in and out for a second. “Yeah. It’s really deep. You’re really deep.” I wiggle my hips. “It’s good.”

He withdraws several inches and I close my eyes. The slide is so good. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the feeling of him inside of me. He’s so thick and long and being this full drives me wild, the slide of his cock splitting me open my personal nirvana. He presses into my lower abdomen with his hands, pulling me onto him as he drives in again, and I almost come right there. Holy shit, the pressure of his hands against my stomach, combined with him inside of me, it’s too much.

I mumble something and he stills, sunk as far as is physically possible inside of me. I feel his stomach against my ass, the fabric of his pants against the backs of my thighs, and I’m reminded that we’re fucking in a closet during a party.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Yes.” I sigh. “The thing with your hands, it’s good.”

He presses firmly against my stomach, the heel of one hand dragging across my skin, and thrusts again.

“That. Oh, my God, Sawyer.” I shove on the wall, pushing back on him with the only leverage I have, and he starts to fuck me in earnest. The sound of the party is a backdrop to the slaps of skin against skin and the rustling of clothing inside the closet.

My head drops forward, my hair a curtain around my face. I can make out our feet from the fragment of light coming under the door. Polished black shoes planted on the floor outside of the tips of my heel-clad ones, barely touching the ground. I watch my toes rock back and forth as he slams into me from behind and it’s so deliciously dirty.

“I’m close, Sawyer,” I tell him, clenching tightly around him, increasing the drag of his cock as he slides backward. “Fuck me as long as you want. I have to come,” I warn him, trying to keep my arms firm on the wall as I climax.

“That’s quite the offer, Boots,” he responds as he slows, but does not stop. He thrusts slowly through my orgasm, my body pulsing around him, the friction increased from my muscles contracting around him. I feel every bit of it with his deliberate slide.

“Sorry,” I pant. “Sorry I came so fast. Holy fuck, Sawyer.” My chest is heaving with exertion, even though I’m doing almost nothing but holding my upper body off a wall. Sawyer’s doing all the work on this one. “Do you want a blowjob or do you want to keep going?”

He pounds into me from behind, the smack of his skin against mine renewing my desire like a whip.

“No, I don’t want you on your knees on the tile floor in a hotel closet, Everly.”