The Next Mrs Russo

“Holy crap,” I gasp, my body shaking as he rises up in front of me and wipes his mouth with his hand.

“It’s a good thing the staff have all left for the night.” He smirks. “Because in addition to being talkative, you’re loud.”

“You’re the one talking too much,” I argue. “Take off your pants. Now.”

I reach for him and stroke him through the material with one hand while fumbling with his belt with the other. He groans at my touch, then retrieves a condom from his wallet and places it between his teeth as he unbuckles his pants.

And I’m not ready for it. Not ready for the confirmation of the big dick energy. Not ready for the sight of his erection straining against the cotton fabric of his boxer briefs. Not ready as he pushes them down, revealing the cock of my dreams.

Fine, whatever, maybe that’s a bit dramatic but I have put a lot of time into these fantasies and it really is living up to all the hype in my head.

Perhaps it’s even… overdelivered, based on the sympathetic clenching of my thighs at the sight of it. Long and thick, one of those perfect veins running up the side that I’d very much like to trace with my tongue. The tip already slick with pre-cum.

Did I mention the thick part?

Combined with the long part?

My thighs inch closer together.

Warren slides the condom on and then he’s kneeling between my legs, pushing me back on the sofa as his mouth finds mine again. He tastes like me, and I can’t believe it, can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe that the reality thus far is actually better than anything I conjured up in my head.

Because he’s real. And he’s here, touching me, eliciting responses I couldn’t have anticipated, making my entire body hum with pleasure. And real is far more exciting than imaginary, because I never know where he’s going to touch me next. And I get to touch him, and he’s hard everywhere my greedy little fingers can reach. His shoulders and abs and around to his back and down to his ass. I run my fingers along every muscle I can find as he kisses me. He drops more kisses to my jaw and collarbone as he plays with my nipples and I shiver against him, bucking my hips, eager, so eager for more.

“So impatient,” he murmurs against my neck.

And then he slides a finger inside of me again, working my wet, slick pussy in slow strokes as I groan against him. I want him, want him so fucking bad that I whimper and beg a little.

That finally breaks his resolve, because he lines himself up at my entrance and then slides inside. Slowly. He feels so impossibly huge, long and thick, but I’m wet and eager and I arch my hips to let him in as deep as I can take.

He hisses as we connect, his breath warm against my neck. His eyelids flutter closed as he slowly moves inside of me, and it feels impossible that he’s here, that I’m here, but he is and I am and we are.

And he feels so damn good.

We move together, slow drags at first as I adjust to him. Then he speeds up the pace, reaching under me to adjust the angle until his cock moves against my clit, and I bite my lip at the intensity. Every inch of me is engaged in this act. Every fiber of my being is aglow with carnal joy. Then I tighten around him and come again, harder than before, as I cry out.

I’m panting as he moves inside of me, and when I open my eyes, he’s watching me with a hooded gaze. The darkness of the room settles around us like a blanket, but there’s more than enough light to see him clearly, the sharpness of his jaw, the lock of hair on his forehead, his eyes not leaving mine.

“You,” he murmurs, “are perfect.”

He drives inside of me before I can answer, which is good because I’ve lost the ability to speak. The pressure and friction ignite together, and he buries his head in my neck as he comes inside of me with a final, hard thrust.

It’s better than any dream I’ve ever had. Hell, it’s better than any sex I’ve ever had.

And it’s obviously ruined bookmarking porn forever, because nothing I can find on the internet will ever compete with the memory of what we just did.

Chapter Nineteen

The back patio isn’t the most comfortable place in the governor’s mansion, but it’s also not the worst. The chairs are old-school metal with the grid pattern that leaves indents on your skin wherever it touches and makes the loudest racket when you need to slide them even an inch over the pavement.