Page 42 of Emerald

She’s just like me.

Is it narcissistic to say that I love that about her?

I’ve never considered tying myself to any woman, not permanently. But if I did, it would have to be a woman like this. A true equal.

Of course, that’s all theoretical.

I don’t have time for romance, especially not now.

Still, I can’t help staring at Sloane as she steps into the shower and starts languorously soaping her body. She runs her hands over her wet, slippery breasts, down the flat plane of her stomach.

She tilts her head back to work a handful of shampoo into her hair, her lifted chin revealing the long curve of her throat. Her arched back makes her figure look all the more alluring.

I hadn’t planned to join her, but it’s more than I can resist.

I drop my trousers once more and join her.

“You missed a spot,” I say, sliding my palms over the curves of her ass.

“You’re right,” she purrs. “I’m completely filthy.”

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m kissing her again. My cock is rising to attention, my balls tingling as if they haven’t had release in weeks, instead of less than twenty minutes ago.

I notice that when Sloane stands on tiptoe and puts her arms around my neck, she’s the perfect height to reach up and kiss me. And when I clasp my hands under her ass, it’s the easiest thing in the world to lift her up, with her legs wrapped around my waist.

I lower her down onto my cock, fucking her under the steaming hot shower spray. We’re still kissing, our mouths locked together and our tongues moving in rhythm.

It’s so easy to hold her up. She’s strong, and she’s using her legs and arms to ride me at the same time that I’m thrusting upward into her.

I find myself looking into her eyes, which are dark in color but bright in expression. She really does remind me of a little fox: quick and wild and clever.

We have dark-colored foxes in Russia—their coats are black in the summer, silver in the winter. They’re rare and valuable, just like Sloane.

I carry her out of the shower, over to the bed. I pull her onto my lap, so I can watch those beautiful, natural tits bouncing on top of me. I lay back against the pillows.

She rolls her hips in a slow, steady rhythm, like she’s riding a horse. Her eyes are closed and her lips are parted. She raises her arms to push back her dark curls, the droplets of water from her wet hair pattering down onto the bed.

She’s squeezing my cock with each roll of her hips. Her skin is flushed from the hot water, and from the pleasure of this position. I can see the little nub of her clit grinding against my lower abdomen.

She leans forward and lays her palms flat on my chest, to increase the friction against her clit. Now she’s grinding harder and harder, like a mortar and pestle.

I’m determined to let her cum first, but it’s impossible to hold back. She’s squeezing me so forcefully. If I look at her, the sight of those gorgeous breasts swaying above my face will put me over the edge. But if I close my eyes, the sensation of her riding my cock is all the more intense.

Jesus, I can’t win. I can feel my balls contracting, my cock pulsing.

Luckily, Sloane is right on the edge too. It seems like she was waiting for me. As soon as I start to cum, I can feel her shaking on top of me. Her pussy clenches around my cock in one long squeeze, and it makes me go off like a cannon, an orgasm that barrels out of me, that sends sparks flashing across my closed eyelids.

This girl is going to give me a stroke.

I can’t think, speak, hear, or feel anything but that pure ecstatic surge.

And then I’m back inside my body again, with Sloane lying beside me, her head on my chest.

It’s a position that makes a man want to tell a woman his deepest, darkest secrets.

And Sloane wants to hear them.

Because she’s asking, “What happened today?”

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