Page 52 of Colt
I’m whimpering. Rolling my hips forward. I’m not embarrassed anymore. Not worried about anything. I’m just riding his face, taking every last gasp of pleasure that I can as he continues to lick, suck, tease.
His large hands are digging hard into my butt, his mouth working me over time. And it doesn’t take long for a second orgasm to build. For me to break.
For me to lose it entirely.
I’m boneless when he finally sits up, and I would marvel at his strength, but I’m too busy marveling at everything else. “Condom,” he says, his voice rough.
I scramble and reach out to the cushions, grab hold of the packet. Hand it to him. He tears it open, freeing himself from the black boxers, and rolling the condom over himself before I get a good look.
Even with it on, I can see how big he is. How… Yeah. I was right. I will remember his penis for the rest of my life.
In great detail.
It is the Holy Grail of dick.
The most gorgeous cock on any man, and I don’t even need to see any more of them to know that.
Perfect for me.
I just know it.
“Ride me,” he says, his voice rough.
I lift up my hips, my thighs shaking as I bring myself down onto him. Then he grabs the back of my head and brings me in for a fierce kiss. His tongue goes deep, and I can taste my own pleasure on him as I take him into my body, inch by excruciating inch.
I’m whimpering, trembling as he fills me. As Colt Campbell puts himself entirely inside me. Joins his body to mine.
I grip his shoulders, my nails digging in deep as I lift my hips and start to ride him. It’s so good. So good. So perfect.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
All I can do is feel. The delicious friction of him inside of me. My breasts brushing against his chest with every stroke. I set the tempo. The rhythm. I’m sure he would rather be in charge. But I like that I’ve taken that from him. I can feel another orgasm building. That feels impossible.Three?
Not that I’m complaining.
He leans back, watching me, watching me move up and down on him, watching me take my pleasure.
And I love that I’m putting on a show for him. I’ve never been particularly repressed, I don’t think, but I also can’t remember ever relishing having a man look at me. Watching me pleasure myself. Maybe because I’ve never exactly pleasured myself on any of my other partners. Not like this.
He presses his thumb between my legs, rubbing it over my clit, and I lurch forward, nails digging into his shoulders as he wrenches another orgasm from me faster, harder than I expected.
“You’re such a good girl,” he says. “You act like a brat. We’re just waiting for a man to make you sweet.”
That shouldn’t be hot. It shouldn’t turn me on. It should make me mad. But instead, I feel myself close to the edge again. So close. So close.
Then he thrusts his hips up off the couch. Hard. Changes the rhythm, changes the game. I didn’t realize how strong he was in this position, injured, how much force he could put behind it. But he’s doing it. Hips working like a piston, driving deep. Hard.
I can see him going closer to the edge, his jaw locking together, the tendons in his neck standing out. He wraps one arm around my waist, his hand pressed against my shoulder blades as he thrusts into me one last time, roaring as he comes, as he pulses inside of me, drawing another shattering orgasm for me.
Four.
And that’s when I melt against him. I melt like a candle held to a flame. Pliant wax that can’t reform.
I’m still too hot. Still too rocked.
“What the hell have you done to me?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.” He strokes my cheek, and I’m struck by the tenderness on his face. It creates a strange kind of fear response inside of me. I want to run away from it. Because I feel like I’m not looking athim, at least, not the version of him I know. I feel like… It’s like something straight out of a dream that I would’ve had when I was too young to actually imagine sex.
