Page 12 of Good As Hell

“It’s good. So good Hassan, so good.” I turn to look at those pretty ass eyes as he fucks me. Gripping my nape with his other hand, he holds me still as he drives deep inside me. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to. Oddly, I feel safe with him. He’s doing this to give me pleasure. Each thrust brings us closer and closeruntil I’m clutching at him, trying my best to get into his skin as he hits my spot over, and over again.

“Has—” the word cuts short as the sharp crest of my orgasm hits me.

Snatching me to him, he eats at my mouth, fucking me through my orgasm.

“Wrap those thick ass thighs around me, ma,” he urges, pulling out his dick wet from me and still hard.

He lifts me, helping me reposition my legs around his waist. He cups my bottom, lifting me higher, lining me up with his dick, slowly thrusting while pressing me down on his length.

“That’s right. Breathe, baby, take this motherfucker.” His gaze locks on where our bodies join.

My synapsis threaten to misfire after I follow his direction and it feels like he’s in my fucking chest.

Holding me, he moves over to the chaises lining the balcony. Every step he takes to the one of the chaise lounges is an agony of pain and pleasure. Every step pushes his dick deeper into me. It’s a tease and delicious torment with every step.

Resting his back against the sofa, his eyes search my face. “We good, Lyric?”

“Yes,” I pant, easing up and down his length.

“Good, ride this motherfucker like you own it.” He grits out, showing me the rhythm he wants. He’s dominating me from the bottom. I grind my hips in a swirl and snap. Each drag of his dick against my already clenching muscles has me panting. Each movement is a torturous tease against my clit as well. Soon I’m chasing sensation after delicious sensation.

“Hell yeah, sparrow. Fuck me.” He growls, thrusting up into me. Leaning down, I take his lips. Reaching between us, he caresses my clit again and again, bringing me close and matching me stroke for stroke. Soon we are panting and straining. “Fuck,” he shouts, his fingers speeding, forcing meinto the twisting sharp pleasure of a shared climax. I feel his dick flexing as he comes deep inside me.

I learned over the course of the evening he loves seeing my pussy filled with his come. New kink unleashed for me because I love when he played in it making me come for him again and again.

Drawing me into his arms we are quiet as our bodies cool off watching the sun fully emerge.

“You hungry?”He asks later when I wake in the bed. He has on glasses reading a script on his tablet from what I can see. The cutest five o’clock shadow is emerging because he’s not shaved yet. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by being naked working in bed while I slept beside him, just as naked. He might have liked me in his shirt, but he’s not let me put any clothes back on since then. Nudity is nothing to me since I have at least a dozen people around me between wardrobe changes during performances.

“Yep.” I say nothing about leaving because, to be honest, I don’t want to. He obviously feels the same way, because he’s kept me in this bed, making love to me all morning.

Instead of going into his office, he messaged his assistant he was working remotely.

“I’ll order for both of us,” he says, picking up the room’s phone and ordering two fruit salads; him steak and eggs and me pancakes and turkey sausage, a carafe of coffee, and orange juice.

“I’m going to take a quick shower.” Leaning over, I brush a soft kiss on his firm lips. He cups my neck, drawing me into a deeper kiss.

“Don’t take too long. I like you being here with me,” he admits lowly, like it’s as unexpected for him as it is for me.

“Same.” I smile, meaning it. It seems like he may like me more than he thought.

I finish my shower in record time. I just pull my curls up in a loose topknot, deciding to let Fi worry about it later.

Taking one of the robes Hassan left for me, I pull it on over his dress shirt. I’m sliding my arms into the sleeves, walking out into the living room area when I hear voices. At first I think it’s room service. Until I hear a word in Arabic which I am very familiar with. “Habibi” — my love.

From a soft, almost giddy feminine voice.

I’m standing at the entrance of the living area while Hassan’s back is to me as he stands in front of a table laden with food.

He’s rubbing his neck in agitation, but his voice is everything that is loving as he talks to the woman on the phone.

“I never even asked him if he was married.” Flutters through my mind as I stand there feeling like an idiot.

Ugh. A sick feeling settles in my stomach as I glimpse the beautiful woman on the video chat screen. I know she’s not his sister. I have seen many pictures of her with them from various official pictures of their family across the web.

He says something more to her and returns with his own expression of “Habibti”. I have enough Middle Eastern friends to know that they don’t just throw the equivalent of ‘my love’ around to random women.

On bare feet, I make my way over to the door. It was okay as long as I didn’t know, but there is no way in hell I’m fucking a married man. He’s so deep in conversation he doesn’t notice me. I’m not even stopping for my clothes. I took my shoes off at the door out of respect last night, so I bend to grab those.

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