Page 27 of Dirty Love

“Wilson,” I breath.

“Right here with you,” he grinds out.

I wrap my arms around him, giving in to my need to touch him, to taste him. I kiss his mouth, his jaw, his neck…he tastes like a fearless spring wind, salty and warm, but there’s a coolness, too.

Like he really doesn’t do this. Like he’s used to this being mechanical.

Dirty.

I know all about that.

He palms my ass, one cheek in each hand, and I press back against his touch. Encouraging him.

He touches me there, stroking everywhere, and I roll my hips. Back into his touch. Forward and down onto his cock. Faster. Harder.

As I rise on my knees to get more leverage, he nuzzles my chest, and I cup my breasts for him. I offer myself to him, and he looks at me first.

We hold that for a moment, another pause before more dirty.

And oh, then it getssodirty. He sucks my nipples deep, first one, then the other, and once he pulls them to aching, puffy peaks with his mouth, he pinches them hard.

I swallow my moan, but he slaps my ass and tells me he wants to hear it. “Don’t deny me those sounds,” he growls, and I can’t. I scream his name as he drives his cock into me, ruthlessly now, holding me in place as he strokes in and out. His pace is whipping me towards a second orgasm so fast I don’t know what to do. I’m a vessel for him to come inside, to hold and plunder and fuck and consume.

I’m lit up in technicolor wonder. Outside my body, I can feel him, hear him, and taste him as I sink my teeth into his delicious shoulder, but beyond the points where we’re touching, nothing else exists.

It’s just me and Wilson, and he’s playing the most beautiful music with my body. His lips return to my breasts, licking and sucking there as I crest the highest wave I’ve ever ridden, then his mouth crashes into mine as he joins me in a stuttering, explosive finale.

It takes us a lot longer than a minute to disentangle this time.

I flop over, and he gets rid of the condom, then joins me.

We kiss and touch for longer than I’d ever expect—again, am I acting like the teenage girl who never got to neck in her parents’ basement? Am I reverse-rounding the bases?

And why does this still feel so damngood? The sex is over. I should be in a scalding shower right now, scrubbing my skin and waiting for the melatonin to kick in so I can pass out.

But I don’t want to pass out. I never want this night to end.

He’s playing with my hair when I finally get up the nerve to ask him about something he said during sex. “What did you mean, you don’t do this either?”

He leans over and picks up his shirt, helping me into it. He takes his time before answering, filling the silence with a very thorough worship of my breasts again. When I keep looking at him in amusement—because he’s clever, but so am I—he sighs. “That’s maybe a conversation best left for another time.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to fuck you again, and if I admit that I only ever pay for it, you’re not going to let me.” He glances up at me from beneath the dirty blond flop of hair that I find so irresistible, and I laugh.

“Really?”

“Shut up, I’m being honest.”

“Hookers?”

“Call girls.”

“Gross.” But I say it without any heat, because I secretly like that he doesn’t date. I mean, it’s gotta be expensive, but so is hiring staff that will fuck me, so I can’t judge. I pick up his hand and press it to my chest. “All the time?”

He shrugs, then nods. “Not frequently, either.”

That is a shame for vaginas everywhere, except again, I secretly like it. His beautiful cock is all mine.

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