He begins to flick his tongue in a practiced move, and I convulse.
Shit.
I have no defense against him when he does that. I begin to moan.
He spreads my legs farther apart, his hands on my inner thighs. His entire face is wet with my arousal now, and I begin to writhe under him.
It hits me like a freight train, and I scream out in wonder. He smiles into me as his eyes close in pleasure once more.
The shock waves of the world’s strongest orgasm shudder through me, and then he picks me up and throws me over onto my knees. I hear the telling rip of the condom packet, and then he twists my ponytail around his hand and pulls me back onto his cock.
Oh God . . . he’s in that mood . . . he’s going to ride me home . . . literally.
He hisses as he slides in deep, and my body shakes, still too sensitive from his tongue.
I drop my shoulders into the mattress, unable to hold myself up, and he jerks me back up onto his cock by the hair and slaps my behind. “Up,” he commands in a growl.
I smile. Oh, I love him like this.
He slowly slides in . . . and then slides out. In and then out. He gives his cock a delicious deep circle, taking his time to stretch me. No matter how turned on he is, he’s always careful to prepare my body. He knows he’s a big man, and his experience shows. “You all right?” he breathes.
I nod.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” I whimper. But I’m not all right; sex with Tristan is not all right . . . it’s a blinding light. So much more than all right.
It’s everything.
He slides out, and the sound of my wet arousal sucks in the air. “It’s time for you to learn a lesson, Anderson,” he whispers.
I smile. “Siri to you.”
He chuckles and slams in hard, and I cry out.
Ouch.
He gives me a few hard pumps.
“What’s the lesson?” I whimper, his grip on my hair near painful.
“You don’t get to break up with me.” He pumps me hard, and I nearly bounce headfirst into the wall. “We don’t end . . . until we both decide.” He slams me hard again, and it’s so good that my body begins to ripple around him once more.
He jerks me by the hair, and I smile up at the ceiling, his cock riding me in hard, measured strokes.
“Do you understand me?” he pants.
“No.” I giggle.
Slap. His hand comes down on my behind.
“Ouch,” I whimper.
His hips pick up the pace. “We don’t end . . . until we fucking end.” The bed begins to hit the wall with force. His grip is painful.
“Tell me you fucking understand,” he moans.
Butterflies flutter deep in my stomach. Hearing the arousal in his voice does things to me. “Yes,” I pant.