Page 59 of Chicago Sin
“Oh fuck,” I pant. “Oh my God.”
I come some more.
He undulates his hand, so the heel of it pulses against my clit. I come again.
“Jesus.” I fling myself back into his arms, my head lolling over his shoulder.
He pulls his fingers out of me, and I moan, but he gives my pussy three more quick slaps, and I come again.
“Holy freaking shit,” I pant. “What in the hell did you just do to me?” My whole body is abuzz, ass tingling, pussy raw and sore from the spanking, anus still pulsing from being breeched.
I turn my face into his neck because my eyes suddenly burn with the release. I know if I don’t make anything of it, the emotions will pass through me, but I don’t want him to see. It’s so weird how easily I cry.
He shifts my ass to hold me better, and I feel his rock-hard erection prod my butt. I don’t feel guilty. Not really.
But the truth is, I’m still revved up. I don’t know, maybe my body’s not quite satisfied until I go the whole way. Until I actually ride his cock.
“The only way I’d have sex with you would be if I tied you up this time,” I tell him.
“Not gonna happen,” he answers without hesitation, but I feel his cock lurch against my backside. He brings his fingers to my clit and rubs a slow circle.
Shit!
This man’s touch is my kryptonite. I swear he could make me do anything if he just made me come this hard every day.
I put my face back in the crook of his neck and whimper. I may have just come, but the need is still there. And he’s amping it up with every rub of my clit.
“I’d let you ride me no-hands,” he offers.
I bite his neck because I’m frustrated. “What is that?”
“You know. Like at a strip club. You can climb all over me, but I can’t touch you.”
He had to bring up strip clubs and remind me of last night. “No, I don’t know. I’ve never been,” I say tartly.
“You wanna ride my cock?” He massages a handful of my ass.
Unfortunately, it seems my body wants nothing more. It holds no grudges.
When I hesitate, he moves, lifting me off his lap and pulling me to my feet as he stands. Then he swings me up into a baby carry. I gasp, worried I’m too heavy, but he doesn’t appear to be straining.
And being carried is a delicious feeling. One I don’t want to indulge in because there are already way too many things about the way Armando touches me I like. I don’t want to get used to any of it because it’s not a relationship. It’s not permanent. It’s this weird high-stress shared experience that forged intimacy. Like people who band together during the zombie apocalypse and are forced to develop bonds that would never exist otherwise.
And yeah, it says something that I’m comparing our situation to the one faced by the characters in The Walking Dead.
He sets me on my feet near the bed and pulls my dress, which is still tangled up around my armpits, over my head.
I give his chest a light push, which of course, doesn’t move him at all. “No touching,” I remind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Armando
Mary, Queen of Peace. I’m harder than stone for Hannah. What kind of magical creature is she to transform every conflict into explosive sex? She just fucking surrenders to me. Even when she wants to hold back, her body melts with my touch, all the dirty things I do to her. I don’t plan to do them, but she makes me. She brings it out in me. Her body receives, and mine wants to give. It’s impossible for me not to deliver every caress, every spank, every orgasm she seems to crave.
And right now she wants to pretend she has control, so I’ll give it to her. I strip out of my clothes and grab a condom out of my wallet. I flop onto the bed on my back and roll the condom on my erection.
Hannah’s ditched all her clothing. She’s freaking glorious—all soft curves and dark skin with that insane mane of hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She climbs onto the bed.
