Page 127 of The Coach

I thrash beneath him, pleasure crashing through me like a tidal wave.

My vision goes white.

I can feel myself clenching, trembling, my entire body spasming around his cock, dragging him deeper into me.

But Jackson doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t slow.

He grips my hips, holding me still, letting me ride it out, fucking me through it.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, his voice thick, rough, wrecked. “You were made for me.”

My breath stutters, my body trembling from the aftershocks.

Then, he pulls out.

I collapse against the glass, spent and shaking, gasping for air.

But he’s not done with me.

Not even close.

Jackson grabs my hand, pulling me away from the window.

He walks me across the room, guiding me toward the couch, his cock still thick, still glistening, still so fucking hard.

I swallow hard, staring at him.

I know that look in his eyes. I saw it on the first night we were together.

He sits down in the middle of the sofa, legs spread wide, his hand slowly stroking himself.

Watching me.

"Kneel, baby." His voice is deep. Commanding.

Heat rushes through me.

I obey.

Slowly, I lower myself between his legs, my pulse hammering in my throat, my thighs still shaking from the way he just ruined me.

I bite my lip, watching his hand stroke up and down his length, his cock thick and glistening, veins pulsing along his shaft.

"Taste yourself on me. Let’s see how you do with that mouth you were so eager to use earlier.”

Need pulses through me.

I swallow hard.

Jackson watches me, eyes blazing, hungry.

I lean forward, hesitant, but aching to obey.

I let my lips brush the tip of his cock, tasting myself on him, warm and slick and sinful, mixed with his precum.

He groans, low and guttural.

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