Page 76 of Personal Foul

I should’ve guessed he would. This guy notices just about everything. Which is … disconcerting in a lot of ways.

Pulling out, he taps my outer thigh. “Flip over for me. I think this’ll be better.”

As I move over, he stacks the pillows in front of me, then with his hands on my hips, helps me into the perfect position. Using the pillows to support my upper body, I look back at him over my shoulder. He’s rubbing my pussy, sinking two fingers inside me and rubbing my G-spot until I moan and close my eyes, and then he’s rubbing my clit too.

Dear god, I think he’s going to make good on his extra point promise. I wasn’t sure it’d be possible, to be honest. I’ve never come twice in such quick succession, but apparently I don’t need as long to recover as I thought, because his hands are working magic.

I whine when he stops, because I was starting to get close.

“Don’t worry, Spitfire. I won’t leave you hanging. I promise.”

Then his dick is stretching me again, and it’s even more delicious than his fingers. And in this position, there’s no way for him not to hit my G-spot, and then his fingers are there rubbing my clit again in the way he just discovered I like.

He doesn’t hold back now, pounding into me with all the power in a lower body he perfects in the gym and on the football field.

Holy shit. I can see why athletes get groupies if they all fuck like this. Honestly, if I’d known it would be like this, I might’ve taken him up on his offer after our date night.

Between his fingers rubbing furiously on my clit and his dick hitting my G-spot every. Single. Time. It doesn’t take long for me to be right on the edge of another orgasm, my spine curling, my body undecided whether it wants to get away from or lean harder into the stimulation.

Both, somehow. It’s so much, almost too much, but not enough, and I’m hanging on the edge for what feels like an eternity.

Then Dylan slams into me hard and growls, “Come on, Spitfire. I know you’re right there. Come on my dick.”

And while I never would’ve thought that being commanded to orgasm would work for me, somehow those words are just what I needed to send me over the edge. With a loud cry, I come, and he never stops pounding me to the other side, keeping the orgasm going until he finally grabs my hips with both hands and grinds into me, his dick jerking inside me as he comes too.

With a sigh, I collapse further onto the pillows, and Dylan slowly pulls out, allowing me to lie flat on the bed.

He climbs off, chuckling softly as he takes me in, pulling off the condom and wrapping it in tissues he grabs off the nightstand. Bending, he drops a kiss on my head, then walks to the bathroom stark naked, like he strolls around in the nude all the time, totally unashamed.

Hell, he probably does walk around naked all the time. Why wouldn’t he? With a body that sculpted, you can’t blame the guy for wanting to see the results of all his hard work.

At the very least,Ienjoy seeing the results of all his hard work.

The water turns on in the bathroom for a minute, then turns back off again, and he’s strolling toward me, his dick still at half-mast, a smile on his face.

“What’s that smile about?” I ask, circling my finger in the air.

He chuckles. “You. Staring at me like I didn’t just give you two orgasms. You need more?”

I let out a groan. “God, no. Not right now, anyway.”

Climbing onto the bed, he cuddles up behind me. “Later, then. Got it.”

I laugh, but don’t say anything, content to just be for the moment. Except my brain isn’t on board with that plan for long, and soon the wheels start spinning and the questions start flying around.

What does this mean?

Are we still friends? More than friends? Friends with benefits?

Are we still fake dating? Or does this mean we’re really dating?

Which of those things do I even want?

Do I want this to happen again?

The answer to that is an automatic and resounding yes that almost surprises me with the suddenness that it springs to mind.

Well, okay, then.

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