I’ve never had anything go in that particular hole, and I’m not about to experiment on that level while standing inside a toilet. Maybe I need to add that to my list of Hot Girl Healingthings to do before I turn thirty. I’ve heard some of the girls on the team talk about how they love a little back door action.
He leans over my back, his mouth next to my ear. “Hold on tight.”
Fuuuuuck. I might come again just from this man’s voice.
I grip the sink, my knuckles turning white, and my body thrumming with excitement of what’s to come.
He kicks my legs farther apart with one of his feet and slides my bridal lingerie to the side, then the blunt head of his cock presses against me—thick, hot, inevitable. He nudges his dick against my entrance. He’s girthy, stretching me as he slowly starts to sink into my soaking wet pussy. There’s no warning as he shunts in so deep it draws a moan from me. A shiver rolls through my body as he gives me a minute to adjust.
“Still okay?” My heart threatens to crack at the pained sound of his voice as he checks on me. The more time I spend with this stranger, the more of a prick I realize my ex was, and the more I realize just how much I settled with a man who didn’t even give me the bare minimum.
I’m not letting George ruin this moment for me by striking an emotional chord, so I blink back the threatening tears.
My nipples are tight, my muscles primed, my pussy flexing and fluttering around Bathroom Buddy’s dick as I nod. “Yes. Yes. Please… just…” My mouth is still open as my brain tries to figure out what I’m asking him for, but he already knows. He pistons into me, slowly at first as if he’s trying to work up a rhythm.
It’s not long before his balls slap against me with every sharp thrust of his cock. Our bodies moving together in the cramped space, makes it feel even more urgent and desperate. The more he fucks me, the more breathless and eager I get. I’m driven by an unrelenting anger, a blooming ache, and thedesire to erase the memory of my ex-fiancé from my most intimate spaces, so I meet him thrust for thrust.
Pettiness made me grab this man, but the faint tingle of a promised orgasm fuels my ferocity, driving my hips back against the brutal thrust of his body.
The moment our eyes lock in the mirror, it’s like he’s seeing straight through my armor. My first instinct is to flinch, to look away—but he grabs my hair, forcing me to look into his bottomless eyes—and God help me, my whole body lights up.
It’s unexpectedly hot, and uncomfortably intimate. Historically speaking, I stare at the magnolia wall above the headboard and run through my chores or gameplay during this moment. So this eye-contact thing hits harder than his thrusts—this unexpected intimacy. He’s watching me come apart. Watching me see myself. It’s raw, almost too much. It’s exposing me in a way I’m not sure I like with a man I just met.
And when his other hand somehow makes it under the front of my dress and back to my pulsing clit, it’s a matter of seconds before I detonate for the second time. This time on his cock.
I’m gone again. The pleasure blindsides me, violent in its devastation. I claw at the porcelain, at air, at him. He growls something I can’t hear over the rush in my ears. It’s messy, desperate, perfect. It takes us both by surprise, my body jerking and spasming, my breath stolen from my body on a wail as he drops his forehead onto my shoulder, hissing through gritted teeth. I should care about being overheard, but I can’t find it in me to care.
Holy… What the hell? I can’t even get myself to come twice in close succession.
His cock swells, and he grunts, pressing me into the sink so hard there are going to be bruises on my hips.
Watching him as he unloads inside of me is the most eroticthing I’ve ever experienced. When he tips his head back, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes unfocused, and a deep sense of satisfaction spreads through me.
My body trembles. The air smells like sex and relief. My reflection shows a woman I barely recognize: flushed, wild-eyed, alive.
I offer him a shy smile. My hair is disheveled, my cheeks red, and my makeup not quite as dewy looking as it was before I left for Ballygally Castle.
He cleans himself up, tossing the condom in the rubbish, and fixes my dress in silence, the fabric now clinging to my sweat-slicked skin. He makes sure I’m ready before he reaches for the lock.
I stop his hand with mine. “Wait. You should go out there first. I’ll wait a minute and go out after you.”
He purses his lips as though he’s fighting a laugh, then nods.
I smooth out the front of my wrinkled dress with clammy hands, unsure of what to say to this good Samaritan who helped me get over George by letting me get, well, not exactly under him, but close enough.
“Uh… thanks?” I hold out my hand ready to shake his.
He lets his melodious, rich laugh go this time. “I just had my dick buried in your dripping wet pussy, Rhiannon. A handshake’s a little formal, don’t you think?”
My body didn’t get the memo that it’s a one-and-done thing. It flares to life at his words. “I guess it is.”
He lets his gaze rake all over my body. It’s so slow, deliberate, that I can almost feel my skin sizzling as they linger on my cleavage. “If only we had a little more time.”
I tip my head to the side asking a silent question.
“Well, I made you come on my fingers, then on my cock, I’d have loved to eat you out till you came on my face to make it a hat trick.”
His. Dirty. Mouth.
