Page 113 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I kiss her like a man trying to chew through his own restraint, my hand slipping inside her bra to palm her breast. My rough caress teases her nipple until she’s writhing beneath me.
It’s too fucking much.
My hips buck forward, andChrist, one more stroke like that, and I’m done—and that’s unacceptable.
I curse under my breath and slip a hand between us, down the front of her panties, fingers sliding through her invitingslickness.
“Oh, this filthy little thing. She’s a bad girl, huh? Not coming when she’s supposed to.”
“Give her your dick, and she’ll sing opera.”
“Not yet, beautiful.”
I quickly untie the satin belt from the headboard, pulling her arms, still bound, around my neck and securing them like a collar. She blinks in surprise as I hoist her off the sheets effortlessly. Her legs clamp around my waist, and I carry her to the wall, pinning her there with the full weight of my body.
“You need your first orgasm,” I murmur.
I rock against her, my hips thrusting with a relentless, bruising force. Her moans shatter into gasps, sounds that imprint into my memory like a melody I’ll never unhear.
“Fuck, Bryce—more. Please.”
That last word—please—makes something inside me snap.
Petra doesn’t beg for anything. But she begs for me.
I tighten my grip on her thighs, my hips grindingharder, over and over, crashing my core into hers. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, until…
She holds her breath.
That’s how I know.
One second. Two. Then—
She releases this high, helpless whimper—like a whistling teakettle trying to shatter glass. It’s her most intense climaxing sound yet.
Damn… I’m officially wrecked.
Her breathing is erratic. Shallow puffs of air brush over my skin as she melts against me.
But I am not done.
Not even close.
“Rest time’s over, Pip. I’ve got a quota to meet.”
“Bryce… please. Just fuck me.”
The needy moan that tears from her isn’t polite—it’s carnal. Andfuck meif I don’t get harder.
I release a hand from her waist and slip my fingers under her panties. As I slide along her folds, a groan rumbles through me. “You’re dripping with gratitude… I think I better lick you clean first.”
She shudders, and I have to pretend I don’t feel it everywhere. My body’s on fire as I haul her across the room.
The wingback chair waits like a throne, ready for its queen. I lower her, and she sinks into the cushions as though her bones have given out. Her head falls back, arms still tied with the robe sash. When I’m finished with her, this upholstery is going to need a professional cleaning.
I give the belt a firm tug, pulling her limbs above her head. “Unless… you’d rather call it a night? Return to your room and pretend this didn’t happen?”
No response. She’s conserving energy.
