Chapter One
Casey
Boston in February hit like a bitch in the dead of night. The apartment heater cranked way too high, turning the bed into a goddamn inferno.
Paul's hands found my legs first, those long, sleek lines I'd worked hard to sculpt. He toyed with them like they were his new favorite plaything, fingers tracing the taut muscles of my calves, slow and deliberate. His lips followed, tongue flicking out to taste the skin, then teeth grazing just enough to sting. He pushed upward, palms pressing into the sensitive spots behind my knees, making me squirm. The mix of pain and tease clashed hard with how I tried to hold it together, my body betraying me with every shiver.
No sweet kisses from him—not really. He preferred marking me up, teeth sinking in lightly on my inner thighs, tongue swirling over the bites to soothe and torment all at once. My toes curled into perfect arches as tension built, my breath hitching from the nerves and the rush. His mouth inched higher, right to the crease where thigh met everything else, nipping and sucking until I was a mess.
Then that thick, throbbing cock pressed against my soaked entrance. No hesitation, no gentle bullshit. Paul hoisted one of my legs over his shoulder, splitting me wide like he owned every inch. He drove in deep, brutal, filling me to the brink. The initial rip and swell hit like a shockwave—I trembled hard, but he swallowed my gasp with his mouth, devouring it.
He paused for a beat inside me, letting me feel the stretch, then went wild. No rhythm at first, just chaotic thrusts, but aggressive as hell. Every slam buried him deeper, his tip grinding right on my G-spot, making stars explode behind my eyes. His hands clamped my slim waist, fingers digging in, leaving bruises I'd feel tomorrow. The pain mixed with pleasure, pushing me from taking it to craving more.
I wrapped my legs around his solid waist, feeling those ripped muscles grind against me, rough and raw. "Fuck, Paul, harder," I gasped, my hips bucking up to meet him. He growled, flipping me over onto my knees, ass up. One hand pinned my neck down, keeping me from looking back, the other kneading my firm, round cheeks, spreading them.
This angle? Deeper than sin. He slammed in, our bodies slapping loudly, my wetness splashing everywhere, soaking the sheets in a mix of sweat and slick. His cock pistoned fast in my tight heat, pulling out strings of my arousal with each retreat. "Shit, you're so fucking wet for me," he rasped, voice thick with lust. I moaned, pushing back, "Don't stop, pound me, make it hurt so good."
He did—relentless, the bed creaking under us. My arms shook, but the angle hit every nerve, building that coil tight. Then he yanked me up, flipping positions so I straddled him, riding that massive dick. I braced my hands on his hard chest, my heavy breasts swaying heavily with every shaky breath, nipples tight and aching for attention.
"Ride me like you mean it, Casey," he growled, his voice low and commanding. His strong hands gripped my waist as he thrust up hard from below, slamming that massive cock deep into my soaked core. The fat head punched against my cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.
"Ah, fuck!" I cried out, my hips instantly going wild. I started riding him frantically, sliding up and down his shaft, swallowing every veiny inch before lifting almost all the way off and slamming back down. My ass cheeks slapped loudly against his thighs, wet, filthy, while my juices coated his cock and dripped down his balls.
He met every downward plunge with savage upward thrusts, driving into me so deep I saw stars. His hands slid up to my bouncing tits, grabbing the soft, heavy flesh greedily. He squeezed and kneaded them roughly, fingers sinking deep into my breasts, thumbs and forefingers pinching and twisting my swollen nipples hard, sending sharp sparks straight to my clit.
"Shit, your tits are so fucking big and soft," he groaned. "Look at these hard little nipples… You love having your tits played with, don't you, you dirty girl?"
My movements grew crazier. I twisted and rolled my waist in frantic circles, grinding my swollen clit against his pelvis while my inner walls clenched and fluttered around his thick cock. "God, your cock feels so fucking good inside me," I panted, my nails raking red lines down his chest. "It's so thick… you're splitting me open…"
He smirked, thrusting even harder, his hips snapping up violently. "Yeah? Then take it all, you filthy slut. Ride me harder—milk my cock with that greedy little pussy."
Sweat poured down our bodies, making our skin slick and slippery. The room reeked of raw sex.
Suddenly, he surged up, biting down hard on my shoulder, teeth sinking into my skin as his thrusts turned feral. "Come for me, Casey. Scream my fucking name!"
I shattered instantly. My pussy clamped down like a vice around his cock, spasming wildly as a powerful orgasm crashed through me. Hot juices gushed out, soaking his groin while I screamed his name at the top of my lungs, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.
With a deep, guttural groan, he followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and flooding my womb with thick, hot spurts of cum, filling me full.
February in Boston had this brutal edge—no romance, no postcard bullshit, nothing for the tourist ads. Charles River froze in half-melted chunks, and streets turned to slushy mud. The whole city looked like a hungover mess sprawled on the bathroom floor, dignity long gone, zero spark.
But me, Casey White? I sprawled on Paul Vincent's bed, blissfully checked out from it all.
"Temporarily," because for the past stretch, my brain ran on pure pleasure mode—with him, sex shut down every worry, every "what the hell am I doing" question.
Now I rolled onto my side, face buried in his chest, his skin still hot, heartbeat steady and strong.
Wind off Charles River rattled something outside, the bedside lamp casting everything in warm gold. If life was a movie, this shot could've been the poster.
"Hey," I said, keeping it casual, "tomorrow's my birthday."
Deep down, I nursed this tiny hope—not for some big gesture, just a sign he cared. Even "Oh really? Where should we celebrate?" or some bullshit question about my wants.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn't move.
"Okay," he said, lazy, arm tightening around me.
One word.
