She wasn’t going to stick around for long, and I knew it. Some asshole who was available, handsome, and not fucking engaged was going to whisk her away. And I wouldn’t be able to say shit about it, because I was promised to another. I plunged my fingers into her pussy again and brought them to my lips, tasting her. “In the shower,” I growled.
She climbed up the elegant, gray stone steps to the glass shower door and opened it. The floor was made of real pebbles, and she wiggled her toes at the weird texture, a snicker escaping her lips. I lived in a three-bedroom apartment in the most expensive part of the city, while she was struggling to make ends meet and pay the bills on her shitty, old shoebox in an up-and-coming neighborhood. Yet this was the first time she’d reacted to any of the fancy shit in my place.
She stared at me expectantly, wondering if I’d join her. I tucked one hand into my jeans and leaned against the sink.
“Take off your dress.”
She did. She wore a simple, cotton bra underneath it. Her first mistake.
I squeezed my cock through my briefs lazily. “I said no bra. That’s your first pussy spank. Turn the shower on.”
She did, with quivering fingers. She disconnected the sprayer from its hub and pressed it against her tits and stomach, closing her eyes and enjoying the warm streams of water.
“Lower,” I commanded.
She lowered the sprayer to her navel.
“I wouldn’t test me, Chucks.”
She groaned, sliding it down and pressing it against her sweet, tight pussy, which was mostly shaved, just a landing strip of fair, blond hair leading to my final destination.
My dick throbbed, aching with primal need, and now I was full-blown stroking myself, fascinated by how different she was in the office than when we fucked.
“Inside.”
The sprayer was less than the size of an iPod because I had eight of them in this shower pointing from different directions. She could easily fit it into her cunt and even take a few of my fingers in, too.
She stared at me defiantly, her nipples puckering into little pebbles. “No,” she moaned.
“That’s your second pussy slap.”
Jude smirked. I knew she’d be into it, but I’d expected her to be more sheepish about it. At any rate, this playlist-building, dirty-headlines-finding girl was going to get screwed extra hard tonight.
“Put it in now, or you’ll be getting more surprises I’m not entirely sure you’re ready for,” I said, squeezing my cock until it pushed back into my hand involuntarily, begging for release.
Working on it, junior.
Jude slipped the sprayer into her pussy and shuddered at the invasion.
“Now fuck yourself with it, and beg me to be the one doing this to you.”
She moved the sprayer in and out, trembling at the pleasure of the fast stream coating her walls, and I was just about ready to die here against the sink and let her inherit all of my shit. The girl was a lioness at work and a lamb in bed, the perfect combination for a predator like me. I wanted to fight her when we were in the office and fuck her when we were anywhere else. But it was the in-between part that worried me. Because I wanted to monopolize every second of her life, even when we weren’t doing either.
“Oh, God,” she moaned.
“Célian,” I corrected. “Call me by my name. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to screw me.” She whimpered into her own shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut, her orgasm brewing, making her legs shake. I wished I wasn’t such a bastard in this moment.
“Stop.” But I was.
“W-what?” she stuttered, still masturbating with the sprayer.
I was so hard now I could barely think clearly. All my blood had rushed to my dick, and if you’d asked me for my own name I’d have had trouble answering.
“Stop right now.” A raspy growl slithered between my lips.
She opened her eyes, confused, but slowly removed the sprayer from her pussy.
“Turn it off, and get to my bedroom. Don’t dry yourself off.” I turned around and walked away.
I perched on the edge of my bed, pushing my sleeves up and tapping my thigh. She appeared at my door seconds later, dripping water all over my floor, her hair wet and her eyes wide as she scanned my black and gray accented bedroom and gold silk comforter. Maman had brought it over from her last trip to Paris. Her friend Isabelle had gifted it to me, and my mother had been about to faint she’d been so proud of her wonderful son, who’d left such a great impression on her friend all those years ago when she’d visited us in Nantucket.
I’d spared my mother the fact that Isabelle was so fond of me because she’d popped my cherry when I was fourteen—while they were both drunk and Maman had stumbled off to make sure Mathias wasn’t fucking any more of the staff. Such was my life. A great, colossal mess.