Page 23 of Fourth Wheel
I lick.
She mewls.
I bite.
She hisses.
I suck, and she goes silent, instead answering my marking with the rhythmic grinding of her hips.
She careens and shifts under me as she aligns our bodies and puts me exactly where she wants me.
My dick’s hard enough to punch through this damn alley wall, and I’m more than happy to oblige as her body seeks the friction we both crave.
When she finally makes contact—lining up her sweet, forbidden cunt with the pulsing bulge in my pants—she cries out. She cries forme. And then she moves, working her center against me and gripping my shoulders with both hands.
She sets the pace, and I gladly follow her lead, dry humping the shit out of her so I can hear her make that noise again.
She pants.
She whimpers.
She grunts.
And suddenly I worry that I’m being too rough. I slow my thrusts and work a hand between her torso and the coarse brick and mortar at her back.
“Don’t,” she groans as she wiggles out of my hold.
“Don’t what?” I demand, halting all movement to make sure she’s okay.
She’s breathing so hard she can barely speak.Fuck. We’re both so worked up I completely forgot where we are.
She cups my face, then traces my jawline, working her hand into the hair at the nape of my neck and giving it a sharp pull. “Don’t try to cushion my back or treat me with kid gloves. I want you just like this. I like it rough.”
She wants me like this. She likes it rough. And I’m so wrapped up in this I’m seconds away from pulling my dick out and giving it to her in an alley.
But this shouldn’t happen like this.
This shouldn’t happenat all.
I stare down at the woman panting in my arms and admire the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the strength in her thigh as she keeps that damn leg hitched up, holding me to her.
I know what she wants. I know whatIwant.
I could justify this in a million ways if I just let it happen.
But then I see his face.
The sad, lonely boy who looks just like me. My brother, who isn’t getting better, and who doesn’t need another reason to prolong his heartache.
It doesn’t matter if he never found out.
I would know. And it would kill me.
In this world where we only have each other to rely on…
I can’t sully the version of myself he loves—the version of me heneeds—to scratch an itch or satisfy an urge.
I’ll choose his happiness over mine every time because there’s just so little left in this world that makes him happy.
