I brace myself just before she takes me in a single stroke, plunging me deep and Jesus tapdancing Christ, I swear it feels even better than it did last night.
And the view. She starts riding me, slowly, and I don’t think there’s any sight in the world like Violet naked and on my cock.
I put my arms behind my head so I can watch her. Her tits bounce with every stroke. Every time she hilts me, a little moan escapes from her lips, her pussy clenching slightly, her eyes fluttering closed. Violet is warm, tight perfection, and every stroke makes it harder to breathe.
She moves faster. She bites her lip, her eyes closed now, her movements harder, more demanding. I move my hands to her thighs, her hips. I meet her with every thrust, feeling her quiver, listening to her moan even as I clench my teeth.
I can’t last much longer, not like this. Not when it feels this good, like we were designed to fit together so well.
Violet leans back, her hands on my thighs, and I gasp. She moans explosively with the new angle, slows, pauses. She clenches around me, muscles quivering, fluttering as I close my eyes, take a deep breath against the heat gathered in my belly.
She arches, takes me. It takes all my force of will not to come, and I slide one thumb up to her clit, starting circling her.
“Oh, God,” she whispers. “That feels good.”
“That’s the idea,” I manage to say.
“Don’t stop,” she murmurs.
My balls tighten, the liquid heat in my belly threatening to spill out so I pull her hips down onto mine harder, circle her clit faster with my thumb.
“You don’t have to say that,” I tell her, my voice coming out rough and low. “I do know full well not to stop when you’re seconds from coming on my cock.”
“Shut up,” she whispers, body flexing, tits bouncing. I hold my breath, reaching the very end of my rope, barely able to hold back any longer.
Then she proves me right. Violet comes hard, her head back, her pussy clamping around me, even tighter than before as she sighs and moans, not stopping for an instant.
I’m two seconds behind her, drawing her down onto me, shooting myself deep inside her as she coaxes it out of me, coming in jolt after jolt, totally at her mercy.
Violet leans down to kiss me when she’s finished. Right now she’s all softness and warmth, her prickles and hard edges gone. She’s willing and molten, practically gooey in my arms.
Maybe we don’t have to talk, I think, practically high as a kite on her. Maybe we never have to talk again. We get along just fine like this.
After a long, slow kiss she rolls off of me and onto her back, my arm under her neck. She’s still breathing hard, her skin flushed, her hair spread over her pillow and my arm, wild.
Shit, she’s beautiful. I’m sure it’s got something to do with the fact that I came so hard I feel like I might never walk again, but she’s beautiful. A man could just about go blind looking at her.
Finally, the sharks make their way over to me, and she studies my face. I wonder what she’s thinking but don’t want to ask, so instead, I let this moment play out for a long time.
At last she clears her throat, looks down, licks her lips.
“See?” she says.
“See what?”
“I was right,” she says.
I put my other arm behind my head, narrow my eyes, study her.
“About what?”
“That this was a good idea.”
“I don’t remember disputing that,” I say. “In fact, I think you could take my actions as enthusiastic agreement.”
“I didn’t say you were wrong,” Violet says. “I just said I was right.”
“That implies that someone was wrong and I’m the only one here,” I tell her.
“Fine. We were mutually right, happy?”
The answer is yes, actually, because I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be right now than post-coitally arguing with Violet. If nothing else, she’s always interesting.
“Sure,” I confirm. “Is this the part where you kick me out, or did you want to exploit my other talent first?”
She rolls over, toward me, her hair tickling my shoulder as she puts her face down on my bicep, eyes laughing.
“That did make me hungry,” she teases.Chapter Twenty-FiveEliDaniel turns his head as I enter the kitchen, tossing my keys on the table.
“Call Mom, she thinks you’re dead,” he says, still washing dishes.
I glance at the clock. It’s coming up on one in the afternoon.
He puts a final mug in the drying rack, grabs a towel, and turns around, wiping the dishwater off his hands.
“Are you?” he asks.
“Hilarious.”
“You forgot to call last night. She’s convinced you’re face-down in a ditch somewhere right now. I barely talked her out of calling the cops,” he says. “She wound up taking Rusty to the park to get her mind off your death.”