Page 73 of Duplicity

It’s ridiculous, that’s what it is. But, for once, I experience no conflict. No shame. There’s nothing but well-being with a heady shot of arousal as I roll the condom down over his hardness like the pro I now am. It’s all part of the foreplay, sheathing Brendan. Revelling in the anguished anticipation on his face as he endures my teasing touches.

He got me so wet just now. I brush his crown between my legs, right where his fingers were moments ago, until he’s at my entrance. We stare at each other wordlessly. We gave each other the gift of vulnerability just now, when he said those incredible things about my looks and I admitted that he was the only man to have made me come, and I swear those confessions have supercharged the energy between us.

I lower myself carefully, slowly, down on him, and the expression on his face has a lump forming in my throat. He may be a playboy; he may have tonnes of energy and not enough focus as he goes through his daily life; he may have hundreds ofother women that he sees outside of the office—I don’t know—but in this moment I have him, and the delight of being the sole object of his attention is a drug so heady that I suspect I should run for the hills right now.

But I don’t. I sink lower, until I’ve accommodated every glorious inch, and I plant a hand by his shoulder, throwing my weight forward so that my hair hangs loose, brushing his pecs. This busy, impatient, distractible man clamps one hand to my thigh and takes a lock of my hair between his fingers.

‘Don’t move for a sec,’ he whispers, and I nod.

‘Feel that?’

‘Yeah.’

Thatis his dick pulsing inside me like a racehorse desperate to get out of the gates. Yet we both hold our positions. By his standards, this is basically tantric sex. I’ve never seen such quiet, such stillness, in him, especially when he’s in this state of arousal. On instinct, I lower myself further forward so I can kiss him. His beard tickles my chin in the best possible way as he kisses me back hungrily, his fingers flexing against my thigh and his other hand finding the back of my neck, gripping me hard and pulling me further into the kiss. My nipples are brushing against the hair on his chest. Mmm.

He releases me. ‘Now you can ride me,’ he grits out. I bestow another kiss on his lips and I pull myself upright.

‘You look like a goddess. You’re how I imagined Boudica to look, all gorgeous skin and glorious hair.’

I grin. ‘If I’m Boudica, does that make you my horse?’

His laugh is pained. ‘Fuck, yeah, so you’d better fucking show me how you can ride me.’

And so I do. There’s no doubt I feel exposed, self-conscious, in this position, but I embrace it and I drink up Brendan’s avid gaze as I revel in the performance I’m putting on for him. As I drag myself up and down on his dick, that senseof exposure sharpens into something darker, more intoxicating. I’m simultaneously servicing him and taking my own pleasure from his glorious body, and it’s hot as hell.

He grips my hips hard, his powerful body undulating beneath me, his jaw flexing and hips thrusting. This is a private porno with a very lucky audience of one. He’s so bloody gorgeous, so supremelymale, his voracious sexual appetites just an extension of that. I have a fleeting and totally inappropriate memory of Joe, whose intellectual arrogance and professional gravitas were undoubtedly sexier than what actually lay beneath his clothes. While I dismiss it immediately, it provides a wave of gratitude for this fine specimen of a man beneath me. I thought I was a woman who went for that tortured, cerebral, unobtainable type, but time has proven me wrong, it seems.

It strikes me that beneath those sharp suits, Brendan only ever overdelivers.

‘Fuck me harder,’ he orders me, accompanying his command with a vicious thrust, and I groan and obligingly up the intensity of my movements, grinding down on him until my thighs are burning and my skin is slick with sweat.

Our breaths are ragged. The feral look on his face as his climax builds would be enough to send me over the edge again all on its own. He’s so often behind me that I don’t get to see it enough. And the drag, drag, drag of each punishing inch of him against my inner walls is like nothing else on earth. The way he stroked my clit was one thing, but this pleasure is deeper, more primal. I feel it in my womb.

Until I met Brendan, I thought penetrative orgasms for women were mythical creatures, but the heat that builds and builds with each powerful upward thrust from him tells another story.

‘You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,’ he rasps. It’s more of a snarl, in fact. ‘God, I love seeing you lose control, baby. This is the best sight ever.’

‘Same here,’ I pant.

He releases my hips and holds his hands up. I interlace my fingers with his and continue to move. He grips my hands tightly and it gives me the stability I need to meet his thrusts, to push down harder, to yield to the growing ache inside me. I let my eyelids flutter closed.

‘Look at me,’ he orders, and I open them. ‘If I’m giving this to you, I get to see it break you. Understand?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. I’m trembling with effort and desire, seconds away from detonating. I fix my gaze on his gorgeous mouth and dilated pupils even as my face contorts with the tsunami of pleasure that’s now on the cusp of overtaking me.

‘That’s it,’ he croons as I grind down on him as hard as I can, shamelessly seeking out every drop of friction as I ride this endless, beautiful wave. ‘Fucking milk me. Jesusfuck.’

I do. I milk him. I ride his dick in a way that will ruin me for every man and every vibrator in my future, because nothing and nobody hits the spot like Brendan Sullivan in all his glory. He pumps up into me as hard as he can while keeping hold of my hands, his abs flexing in a way that should be illegal and every other muscle group in his body conspiring to give me as good a time as they possibly can.

The pleasure is blinding. His face blurs as I come so hard that my peripheral vision goes black. I grip his hands like a cowgirl trying to stay on a bucking bronco and I ride it out as he swells inside me, his astonishing body going rigid before he pumps and pumps and pumps through his own orgasm in a desperate volley. His grunts and my cries intermingle, and the whole experience is so raw and dirty and intense that I feel as thoughI’ve been vaulted through the air, weightless and insubstantial and free.

When he’s finished fucking me through his climax, he pulls me down and I collapse on his chest, panting and laughing into his neck at the intensity of it all. He twitches inside me, and I clench around him.

He groans into my hair, wrapping his arms around me. ‘Fuck. Does your cunt go to a special cunt gym? Because it’s fucking ripped. Does it lift weights? Do squats?’

’No, but it has an excellent personal trainer,’ I quip.

He stills beneath me. ‘I know I don’t have the right to ask you this, but… just the one trainer?’

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