Page 53 of Pucking One Night Stand
“Jesus!” I thrust back and forth, back and forth, until I lean down and kiss her lips, softly whispering, “Cassy, Cassy, shit, I'm.... ohhh... I'm, Hmmmm...”
And with that, an amazing sensation of electric flickers and fizzling sparks ripples through my entire body, as my thick sperm pumps and oozes, followed by another, and another. Then with one last movement, I pull it out, trailing it over her pussy.
“Oh my God, Blake,” she moans looking down watching as I let the final drops of cum spill on her belly.
I flop beside her, the leather cushions of her office sofa cool against my overheated skin. She curls into me without hesitation, pressing her damp body into mine like we were made to fit that way. My arm slides around her, my palm flat against her back, feeling the rise and fall of every breath she takes.
We’re both slick with sweat. Her skin glistens in the low light, glowing where the moon catches it through the slatted blinds.
My chest is still heaving, hers pressed tight against it, and the only sounds are the hum of the empty building and the slowing rhythm of our breathing.
The office is a mess. Her desk is crooked. A pen is lying on the carpet a few feet away.
Her phone's on the floor. Her bra’s hanging from the corner of the chair like it’s supposed to be there. Our clothes, shirts, pants, her blouse, are a trail across the carpet like breadcrumbs back to the beginning.
The shadows stretch long and strange across the walls. Filing cabinets, shelves, the edge of the whiteboard, all thrown into jagged silhouette by the moonlight leaking through the window.
It’s quiet. Not peaceful exactly. More like the kind of quiet that comes after something loud and savage.
Neither of us moves. Our hearts still thud. Our bodies still tingle from every place we touched.
She’s warm against me. Her thigh is draped over mine, her fingers brushing lazy circles into my chest like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
I could stay like this. Could almost forget all the ways she gets under my skin.
Almost.
Once the rush of blood starts to ebb, once we’re breathing normally again and not trying to climb back inside each other, I speak, quiet but clear.
“So, Cassy. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Chapter eight
Cassy
I’m driving. Or at least, I think I’m driving. Everything’s fuzzy. The road, the lights, especially the lights.
Neon reds, electric blues, greens that melt into pinks, they all smear across my windshield like someone poured paint across the glass.
Rain hammers down in thick sheets, and the wipers are doing absolutely nothing except dragging the mess back and forth. The Vegas Strip, or something that looks vaguely like it, glows and pulses outside, but it’s not right. Everything’s moving too slow, too bright, too loud.
I lean forward, squinting. The traffic ahead is frozen. Just rows of brake lights glowing like a red warning. I press the brake pedal. Nothing. Harder. Still nothing.
“No. No. No, NO—”
The car keeps moving. Gliding toward the back of a truck that’s definitely not supposed to be getting this close this fast. My hands are locked on the steering wheel, but they’re not doing anything. Like I’m in the driver’s seat, but I’m not in control.
My chest tightens. The kind of panic that creeps in fast and sharp. I start to brace for the crash, and then—
He’s just there.
Blake.
One second, the passenger seat is empty. Next, he’s sitting next to me like it’s totally normal to materialize out of nowhere mid-crisis.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look at me.
I watch, wide-eyed, still half in whatever this is, as he opens the door, casual as anything, grabs onto the roof, and swings his legs out.
