“Of Troy?” I gasp out. “I’m not?—”
“But you could be.” His voice drops. “You’re beautiful enough. And I might be stupid enough to ride into battle for you, Molly.”
Then he grabs my ass, spreads me wide, and slams into me.
For a split second my brain snaps.
I asked for this, demanded this.
Shock thunders through me, but then?—
Wait. He’s in my pussy.
Deep.
Hard.
Using the angle to grind against every sensitive place inside me.
He feels enormous. At this angle…me open and stretched wide for him…he feels even bigger, filling me to a point just shy of painful.
Then he pushes two fingers into my ass and the burning stretch is so intense, my vision whites out.
“You really fucking want it,” he growls. “Maybe you’re worth that war after all. But if you’re trying to get me killed, princess, that’s a mistake. Murphys don’tdie easy.”
“Just…fuck…me…gobshite.”
He laughs, wild, euphoric, like lust has snapped something loose in him. It does the same inside of me.
He slams into me harder, deeper. My clit grinds against the padded edge of the bench, every thrust a pulse of electric heat. Hate melts. There’s only this—the void when he pulls out, the devastating fullness when he drives back in, the maddening explosion of sensations that follows.
My body clamps around him, desperate to keep him, to take more, to drag him deeper. He groans like the feel of me is breaking him. His rhythm changes. He moves harder and faster, pushing us both up, up, up?—
Then I snap.
The orgasm hits like a crushing, turbulent wave, clenching, spiraling, ripping through my core. My pussy grips him, my ass tight around his fingers, everything shattering.
He comes, a low, guttural sound rumbling in this throat, face dark, thrusts turning brutal as he fills me. I feel his cock swell, twitch, and release, heat flooding me.
For a long second, neither of us moves.
My pussy trembles around him.
My ass pulses around his fingers.
Then he slips out, breathing hard.
“Jesus, Mary, and Frank,” he manages. “That…”
I try to think.
Try to breathe.
It’s useless.
How the hell is bench-sex, where I don’t even get what I asked for, so good it could make a poet out of me?
And I don’t even write songs.
