Page 24 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“Tell me.”
“I’ll do better than that.”
I slide her off my cock, noting that her slick is tinged with blood. Keeping her on her knees, I move behind her on the sofa and drag her ass towards me. One hand on the back of her neck, I push her shoulders down, and devour the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, and her ass cheeks, dragging my fingers down her back.
Then I spread her cheeks and lick the slick off her. I lick her pussy, her ass, sucking on the flesh in between, dipping my tongue in and out, pushed harder and deeper by her raggedy panting.
“Do you want me, baby?”
“Yes.” A gasp.
I rub the end of my cock around her beautiful wet pussy. “Tell me that you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” No hesitation.
“And I can fuck you till you beg me to stop.”
“You can fuck me till I beg you to stop.”
“Good girl.” I push my cock inside her dripping wet sex, thumbing her clit as I drive it deeper. All the way. So deep I can feel the bottom of her spine. “You feel so fucking good, baby. I never want it to end.”
I slide my cock all the way out, teasing her folds and between her ass cheeks, before sending it home again. I hold her hips steady while I grind into her pussy, filling her up, her walls clenching and throbbing around me, sucking me in.
“I’m going to come inside you.”
It isn’t a question. I need to fill her up with my cum. I need to know that when we’re not together, she can feel me oozing out from between her legs.
I lean over her, fist her hair like they’re reins, and succumb to my own orgasm.
We dragsome blankets and cushions onto the floor in front of the living room windows and stretch out facing the view, side by side, Cartier’s bare leg entwined with mine. She’s comfortable in her own skin, unlike anyone else I ever met. Her clothes are still in the penthouse elevator, but she hasn’t fetched them or fretted over them or made any attempt to cover her nakedness.
With one arm around her shoulders, I stroke her upper arm, my thumb making circles on her skin. Flames crackle inside the log burner in the center of the room. It’s the kind of backdrop associated with the wholesome channel that churns out Hallmark movies on repeat. I’ve never used it before, but it somehow fits with Cartier here.
I’ve no idea of the time, but Chicago’s lights are winking at us from down below, and the sky is a dense ceiling of midnight blue.
“How did you get the scar?” Cartier studies my top lip so intently, that my cock starts twitching hello.
“Sword fight.”
She blinks, sitting back to read my expression. “Seriously?”
I chuckle and chug back the champagne in my glass. “It’s not as glamorous as you might think. I had a fight with my brother when we were teenagers.”
“Leonid did this?”
“I’m sure that if he’d been able to predict this moment before he hit me, he might’ve aimed lower.”
She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue, and I can’t resist. I nibble her bottom lip between my teeth and then refill our glasses.
“I can’t imagine you without it,” she says. “It’s sexy.”
I’m not sure anyone has ever told me that I’m sexy before. Sure, there has been no shortage of women in my life, but never anyone like Cartier. Never anyone who cared enough to get to know the real me behind the designer clothes and the flashy cars.
Leaning in, I squeeze her breast and suck on her nipple, drawing blood to the surface. My cock takes its cue and hardens.
“Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet.”
She smiles. I’m not so oblivious that I don’t read the room. She wants to talk.
