Snatched

I gasp for air as his cock pushes against the inside front of my pussy, the place I’m most sensitive. I throw my arms over my head to brace myself against his motion, and he uses my position to grind into me with each stroke, twisting his cock side to side in me.

“Still so tight,” he marvels, spanking me hard— I like it hard. He reaches forward and grabs my upper body, pulling me up against him, my back to his chest, his cock still in me, his hands massaging my breasts. I turn my head to the side and we kiss as I begin to lift myself up and down on his cock until he closes his eyes with pleasure.

“Two hours,” I pant, sweat beginning to run down my back. He nods— at least, I think he does, and wraps one arm around my body to stabilize me, then lowers the other to stroke my clit as I ride him. “That means we both have plenty of time for another few rounds.” I’m not entirely sure he can understand my words— I can barely understand them. He gets my point, though, when I pump harder on him, swinging my hips forward a bit with each stroke like I know he loves.

He won’t be able to stop me; I won’t be able to stop myself.

“Kenley,” he says, the word half a swear.

“Come,” I gasp. My skin is fire, my heart is pounding, and I won’t be able to hold my orgasm back for long. I feel his cock tighten in me, throb against my pussy. I clench myself around him, and he moans. “Come in me,” I beg. It’s the last thing I’m able to say before I’m swept away by the force of my own orgasm. It hits me like a wave, and I fall backward, losing the ability to ride Finn’s cock. It’s just as well— the moment I collapse back against him, he grabs me tighter and takes a staggered breath. He cock throbs, and I feel the heat of his come filling me as he shudders against my body.

He falls backward, taking me with him, still breathing heavily. I stretch out; my back is still to his chest, his cock still in me.

“Tricky girl,” he mumbles in my ear. “I tell you what I like and you use it to make me come like that, long before I meant to. You ought to be punished.”

“Please,” I say back, feeling wicked, wanting to taunt him into the kind of fucking I never would have dreamed of this time last year.

Finn makes a laughing sort of sound deep in his throat, then slides his now-drenched cock out of my pussy. He kisses the side of my neck lightly, then lines himself up with my ass— I startle, excited, nervous—

“Like you said, baby. We’ve got two hours,” he says smokily, then eases himself into that entrance for the first time.

By the end of the week, despite frequent breaks to have sex, our apartment is more or less put together. We suspect we won’t be here long, so there’s no point in getting too settled in; we’ll both graduate in a year, and since it’s looking more and more like the NFL is going to draft Finn, there’s no telling where we’ll end up next. Thankfully, you can be a mathematician pretty much anywhere, so I’m eager to go where he goes.

On Friday night, we have dinner with Mandy and my mom— who adores Finn, now that she knows him better. She may be an incredibly brilliant scientist, but I think there’s something genetic about mothers loving to find clothes for their daughters’ significant others. The fact that Finn is enormous makes it more of a challenge, which she seems to enjoy. When we sit down at the steak restaurant, she hands over a dress shirt.

“It was on sale!” she says. “I couldn’t just leave it there. Your size is so hard to find.”

“Wow, thanks so much, Ms. Sullivan,” Finn says warmly, and accepts the shirt by way of hugging her tightly.

We sit down together, and I look around. We go out to nice dinners now and again, but this place is especially fancy, enough so that Mandy and I texted outfit photos for an hour before we arrived. I’m wearing a little black cocktail dress, and she’s in a bright pink skirt with a silk blouse that looks amazing against her skin. Finn holds my hand under the table until a waiter appears with a bottle of champagne.

“This is the one,” he says, letting go of my hand to inspect the bottle. The waiter smiles and pops the cork; the restaurant turns to stare at the sound.

“Champagne? Not wine?” I say, curious.

“You don’t celebrate with wine,” Mandy says, rolling her eyes.