My breath catches as two fingers push inside, my core clenching like it’s been waiting all morning for this. Because it has.
New images flood my brain: him bending me over the kitchen island, whispering “Don’t stop cooking” as his fingers work me open from behind. Him waking me up slowly, murmuring in my ear while he fingers me before I’m even fully conscious. Him touching me because I’m his to touch, even in sleep.
He’s right. The list is growing, and all he’s doing is finger-fucking me in a car.
Do I even know how to spell somnophilia?
Not sure. But I want to know how it feels.
And also, how do I extend my visa? I haven’t even fucked him yet, and I already know I need more time to do this properly.
“First things first. Where are we going?” he asks.
“The Hyatt.”
He commands the car’s GPS to take us there and then drives his fingers deeper into me. Fuck, it feels so good. And so wrong. I’m embarrassingly wet for him, so they slide right in, no resistance whatsoever.
“Damn, Pres. You work me so good.” I rock against his hand, a slow grind, forward and back, inviting him further in. He accepts the invitation with a third finger as his plus one.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you ride me,” he grunts. “All flushed and needy. You’ve got that look, baby. Like you’re ready to beg for more.”
I reach for him, my palm pressing against his zipper.
He tuts. “I’m the designated driver, baby. Gotta limit my distractions.”
Then he circles my clit as if I needed any clarification as to what his distraction is at the moment.
“You’re in averygood mood today, Doctor.”
“If you must know, I had a spectacular evening last night.” He licks his lips and picks up the rhythm as if the memory’s getting him worked up.
“If that’s what it takes, eating pussy, I’ll give it to you. I’ll leave the door unlocked every night.”
“First of all—” He pinches my clit hard. Oh lord, if that’s supposed to be punishment, he’s got it all twisted. That’s pure reward.
“Not ‘eating pussy.’ Eatingyoursweet, ripe-as-fuck pussy.”
His fingers slide back in, bold and unrelenting, and I roll my hips, chasing the fullness. I know he’s stretching me, coaxing my body to make space for the monster he’s caging in those pants.
“Don’t tell my colleagues,” he jokes. “They’d never believe I’m all for alternative medicine now.”
I laugh, but of course he chooses that exact moment to curl his fingers and stroke that fucking hidden spot—the one that makes me see constellations. My back lifts from the seat, and the sound that escapes me is part moan, part hymn.
“Fuck, Pres. How do you?—”
“I pay attention, baby. I never stop watching you.”
“So we’re seconds away from crashing, since you’re not watching the road?”
He chuckles, low and wicked, and oh my God, the sound prompts me to rock down harder on his hand, desperate for more friction.
“Would you die a happy woman?”
“Fuck, yes. Just make me come before you roll the car over, okay?”
“Wait. Let me die a happy man too.”
He pulls his fingers out, and I’m ready to riot when he lifts them to his mouth and sucks. Each one. With the concentration of a food critic about to hand out Michelin stars.
