Tongue, teeth, the full arsenal.
When I break for air, both of us are shaking.
I have no idea if this is even real anymore.
I don’t care.
Her pussy is leaking, slick coating my denim, every grind another drag of pure heaven.
If the closet collapses, let it. I’ll just fuck her on the rubble.
I'm done pretending I have a single drop of chill left in my bloodstream.
I fumble at my fly—knuckles shaking, hands clumsy because her mouth is on mine and her body is wet and waiting.
The sound the zipper makes is criminal, slicing through the closet like a gunshot. For a second, the whole world holds its breath.
I shove my jeans and boxers down just far enough for my cock to spring free.
Instant relief, sharp and blinding.
I'm so hard it actually hurts.
I grip the base just to keep from embarrassing myself all over her stomach, and watch Reverie's face as she gets a load of what she's up against.
Her eyes go round, then she breaks into the filthiest, most approving grin I’ve ever seen.
“Oh,” she whispers, and it’s like a benediction. “Yeah. Okay. That’s…um, wow.”
If I could bottle this moment and mainline it directly into my ego, I would.
I'm not shy about it.
I stroke myself, slow, let the precum bead at the tip—slick, sticky, already mixing with the mess she’s made of her ruined panties.
The next time I press against her, she’s so wet it’s like velvet dipped in honey.
I line up at her entrance, teasing a little, just to watch her squirm.
She wants it.
She wants it more than I do, if that's possible.
I brace one hand on the counter so I don't slam her right through the drywall. Other hand wraps under her thigh, lifts her, spreads her open. The cold of the shelving is slicing across my lower back, but everywhere else is pure heat—her pussy, molten and desperate, already grabbing for more of me.
I pause, just a second, just enough to look her dead in the eyes.
“Last warning,” I murmur. “You really want this? You really want me to go hard?”
She doesn’t hesitate.
If anything, her grip gets tighter.
She locks eyes with me—full Alpha stare-off, not backing down.
“I love a consenting Santa Claus who’d I’d enjoy calling Daddy,” she taunts.
And then, clear as crystal, she says:
