Monty
We wake up on New Year’s Day with plans to make breakfast together, but a peck on the lips quickly spiraled, and now I’m aching for him again.
I barely register Guy laying me against the stairs. I’m too busy tearing off his T-shirt and unbuttoning his jeans. It’s rushed and frantic, a flurry of hands, kisses and caresses. He yanks down my jeans, my skin burning from the intensity of it, and he tosses them aside.
The moan that leaves my throat when he buries his face between my thighs doesn’t sound like me. His beard scratches my skin, and I ride against the feeling, my back arched against the rough carpet of the stairs.
“Now, Guy,” I beg. “Take me now.”
His mouth is on mine.
I devour the taste of myself on his lips.
And I cry out when he buries his cock into me.
It’s sudden, an addictive sensation of stretching and filling. Guy groans into my mouth, and the sound sends flutters of pleasure through mypussy.
“Make that noise again,” I say, and as he pulls out and slams back in, he does. “Oh, God.”
He ruts into me—hard, and fast, and wonderfully accurate, and I wrap my legs around his waist, praying he never stops.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” I gasp as pleasure explodes through me. Guy doesn’t stop, extending the orgasm until a tear falls free and into my hair. The feeling is unexplainable, like fireworks exploding in my mind, a never-ending show of colors and lights. “Guy.” Another orgasm hits me.
It’s so out of nowhere that I let out a sob, burying my face in his shoulder.
“More, more, please?—”
He delivers. He doesn’t stop; if anything, he speeds up, his cock hard as a damn rock, his thrusts unrelenting.
He presses his forehead to mine as his hips never stop moving. He stares at the point where his cock delves into me, watching the frantic joining of our bodies, his lips parted as he pulls in breaths.
The muscles in his arms flex as he lifts me and stands. He presses me into a wall and continues fucking me, lifting one of my legs so my knee is pressed to my chest.
“Jesus—” He grunts, burying himself deep, and hard, and fast. “I will never get tired of this pussy,fuck.”
Never in my life did I ever think I’d hear Guy Gibson say the word “pussy,” let alone that he’d use it in dirty talk with me. The man barely speaks, and then he comes out with that?
“Come again for me,” he says against my lips, his strong, powerful body crowding me against the wall. “Let me feel you squeeze my cock.”
His kiss swallows my moans as I come again, seemingly unable to do anything but follow his command. I’m sodamn wet I’m gushing down the both of us, and I never want it to end.
It seems Guy reads my mind, because he doesn’t come yet.
He fucks me over the kitchen island, my breasts pressed into the cold granite. I’m balanced on my tiptoes, my hands behind my back as he slams into me.
But it’s the kitchen floor where he really gives it to me.
I’m on my hands and knees, the floor hard, but I barely feel it as he wraps my hair around his fist and unleashes heaven on my ass. I come again, and again, my moans becoming cries, sobs of pleasure into the hardwood.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come—” He grunts.
He calls out my name, my real name, and comes deep inside me. His grip on my hips hurts, but it’s the only thing that keeps me from floating away from myself.
I press my forehead against the floor, panting until the wood fogs. Sweat slips down my spine, our arousal slick between my thighs, and Guy kisses up my spine.
“You okay?”
I nod, almost wheezing. “I just need a second.”
