Page 51 of Neighbor from Hell
She shudders, her hands tangling in my hair, tugging, urging me closer. Her cries spill louder now, a keening edge to them, each one a blade slicing my control, and I feel myself harden more painfully tight against my trousers, the ache sharp, almost unbearable. It’s a sweet torment, my body screaming for release, but I’m caught, unwilling to rush, wanting to drown in her sounds, her surrender.
“Lauren,” I murmur, my voice muffled against her.
My mouth works her relentlessly, alternating between soft pulls and merciless sucks, her nipple swelling further and becoming so sensitive and responsive she shivers with need, and I feel her pulse, wild, matching mine, but I can’t get close enough to sate the need clawing at me. I grip her thighs as her moans deepen, a low, throaty hum that vibrates through me, and I’m shaking too.
The table creaks under her shifting weight. My cock strains, the pressure agonizing, a pulse of pain that grounds me even as it drives me higher, every one of her gasps tightening the coil in my gut. I suck harder, my tongue flicking, teasing, and she cries out, her voice breaking, a sound so raw it nearly undoes me right there, my body taut, fighting to hold on.
I ease back, lips brushing her skin, leaving her swollen breasts. And my hands slide down her sides, fingers catching the bunched fabric of her dress and dragging it all the way down and off her legs. It whispers to the ground. And there she sits on an old wooden table in the middle of all that junk. Like a queen in a thong.
My lips trace the soft curve of her stomach, my stubble scraping her soft skin, and her warmth radiates and pulls me like gravity. My fingers find her thong, silkily soft under my touch. I hook it, tugging slowly, watching the fabric slide down her calves. There. Except for her high heels, she is completely bare. And heartbreakingly beautiful. Almost too exquisite to touch. She’s trembling. I look up, and her gaze locks on me. Her lips are parted, and her breath is quick. I take a step back.
“Open your legs wide,” I order, my voice low and thick.
She shakes her head, a small, desperate jerk, her fingers tightening, a plea.
“Show me your pussy. I want to see how wet you are,” I say softly.
Slowly, her legs open.
“Wider.”
She obeys, and her freshly shaven pussy opens up like a pink flower. I’m a man hypnotized. I can’t stop staring. As I watch her throbbing core in wonder, more honey collects on the glistening flesh and starts to run down her skin.
I must taste her.
I move forward and kiss her inner thigh, slow, deliberate, savoring the warmth of her skin, the delicious tremor running through her. Her scent hits me—sweet, musky, intoxicating—and it’s a pull that drowns out all reason.
My lips move higher, brushing the soft skin where thigh meets core, and she tenses, a soft whimper escaping. My tongue finds her, her folds slick and warm, and her taste rich, heady, like red wine and want, flooding my senses.
She jerks involuntarily, and my hands grip her hips to hold her steady as I explore and tease her open. I circle her clit, light at first, then firmer, feeling her hips rocking, chasing me. Her moans come faster, raw and unrestrained, each one stoking the fire in my gut, urging me on.
I suck gently, drawing shudders. Her thighs quake under my palms. She’s unraveling. I push her further, my tongue relentless, savoring every twitch, every gasp, until she breaks—a sharp, keening cry, her body seizing, as she comes hard against my mouth. I don’t stop, lapping her juices, and drawing out her release. Her taste becomes sweeter, more intense, then her tremors fade to soft shakes, and her hands loosen in my hair.
Until her body becomes limp, glowing, and utterly spent.
I straighten then and lift her, her weight soft, trusting, in my arms. The sofa’s close by, its faded fabric rough under my touch as I set her down, her eyes dazed, shining. I lean over her. Her voice is hoarse, barely her. “There are condoms upstairs in my suitcase,” she says. The words seem scraped from her throat. She shakes her head, lips part, and she whispers. “I’ve never donethis before with a man, not until I’m sure he’s clean… but I’m on the pill and it’s okay if you don’t want to use one.”
I pause, caution flaring—never trust that, never risk it—but her face, flushed, open, her breasts rising with each shallow breath, kills my doubt. She’s truth, raw and real, and I believe her. More importantly, I don’t want to use one with her either. Even the thinnest veil should exist between us. My cock wants to feel her silky inner walls.
I kiss her hungrily, and her lips are fire under mine, the kiss deep, ravenous, a clash of tongues and teeth that drowns the world. Lauren’s hands are everywhere, frantic, clawing at my jacket, the fabric catching as she yanks it off, buttons straining, popping free. I’m just as desperate, tearing at my shirt, the buttons ripping under my rough treatment. The desire is so fierce it’s a pulse in my blood. Her fingers go at my belt, tugging, the leather resisting, then giving way with a sharp snap. My trousers slide down, and my briefs are quicker to follow. I kick free of them and stand before her naked, and my cock hard and throbbing.
“Good God! Google was right,” she breathes mysteriously, as her hand reaches for me.
Her touch is electric, her fingers wrapping around me, stroking once, twice, and I groan, low and guttural, the heat of her palm nearly undoing me right there.
She’s sprawled beneath me, thighs parted, her skin flushed. Her eyes are dark, wild, urging me on, and I feel the beast clawing at my spine. I grab myself and guide my cock to her. I let the thick head brush her entrance, slick, warm, a tease that makes us both shudder. I stroke her there, slow and deliberate, dragging the tip along her folds, coating myself in her wetness. Her hips tilting, inviting me to enter. I watch mesmerized as she opens her glistening sex for me. The offer is at once decadentand primal. No one who looks so innocent should do something like that. And yet it is unbearably perfect.
It’s exquisite torture when I circle her clit with the head, teasing, feeling her twitch, her breath hitching, and it is pure torture. My cock is throbbing painfully, screaming to be inside her.
“Don’t make me wait anymore, Hugh,” she gasps, and the plea breaks my restraint.
I enter her slowly. Her heat is tight, gripping and pulling me in inch by agonizing inch. The sensation’s overwhelming—a hot slick vice that squeezes. I’m shaking, my breath ragged, every nerve alight. Her tight walls stretch and pulse around me. Buried deep, I pause and savor the sensation, the way she molds to me. Then I pull back, almost out, before slamming in again, deeper, much deeper. I feel her clench with the unexpected movement and hear her gasp of surprise.
Gripping her hips, I fill her sex with my cock, long, brutal thrusts. One for every time she looked at me as if I were dirt beneath her shoe. Each one is a pulse, a claim, her moans growing wilder, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.
The sofa groans under us, springs creaking as I quicken, my rhythm harder, deeper, driven by her cries. Her nails rake my back, leaving trails of fire. Perhaps she is punishing me too. I’m lost in the heat, the friction, her tightness is a vice I can’t escape, and I don’t want to.
I angle deeper, hitting that spot that makes her arch desperately, her hips urging mine to take what it wants. Our mating is frantic, greedy, our bodies a clash of need. Her cries echo, my name becomes a chant on her lips, and it’s fuel, pushing me to the edge. I ram into her, relentless, the head of my cock merciless. The decadence of it—her wetness, her heat, her surrender—consuming me.
