Page 107 of The Doctor's Truth

I let out a muffled noise as she crushes her lips against mine, hard. “Ah—this isn’t…you don’t have to thank me for being here…”

“You asked me what I need,” she said. “I need this. I need you.”

“I need you, too…”

My need for her is a blood rush, pulsing hot. Kenzi is a hit of straight dopamine, and when she curls her tongue inside my mouth, I feel a lick of pleasure that runs down the center of me, knotting in my lap. I’ve tasted Kenzi’s hunger before, but this is different; the way she’s kissing me is desperate and uncontrolled, like she’s trying to climb completely inside of me. She grips the back of my neck, her nails grazing in that way that makes me groan in her mouth. Her body is warm and slots perfectly against mine, and when I cup her ass to pull her closer, she wiggles against me in a way that suggests she needs this as bad as I do.

My lips feel swollen when we break for air. “Should we move this upstairs?” I suggest. After all, Otto doesn’t need to walk in on me mauling his mom in the kitchen.

Kenzi grins. Her palm slips underneath my shirt, fingertips playing on my abdomen. “What, are you afraid you can’t keep quiet?”

“No. Afraid you can’t.”

I suck her bottom lip into my mouth, drawing it between my teeth before releasing, and as if to prove my point, she gasps.

“Yeah,” she purrs, lust-drunk. “Upstairs is good.”

I cradle her in my arms, and when I stand, she winds her legs around my hips. She hooks her arms around my shoulders and presses small, needy kisses under my jaw, down my throat, as I carry her upstairs. We pass Otto’s room and Missus P’s, and I carry Kenzi to her own room—the last one on the hall. I close the door behind us, flick the lock, and lower her onto the bed.

We’re ravenous here. It occurs to me that we’re unbalanced—we’ve gotten so used to the three of us in bed, now we’re passionate enough for three people, not two. She rips the buttons of my shirt, I throw her sweater across the room, and to my delight there’s nothing underneath—just the round swell of her breasts, pink nipples hard for me. We tear at each other’s clothes and roll around in bed, kissing, pawing, sloppy, until we roll right off the bed. My back hits the ground hard, Kenzi on top of me. Kenzi quickly covers my mouth with her hand, and I vibrate with silent laughter as she stares hard at the door, listening for any sounds of life.

“Don’t make a sound,” she whispers and then kisses the back of her hand where my mouth should be. There’s a brief pressure on my face as she pushes up to her feet, and my body misses her warmth. But, obediently, I lie there, quietly, as Kenzi gets up and puts on her sweater once more so she can crack open the door and glance down the hall. She stays there for a couple of seconds, then closes the door again and goes into her bathroom instead.

“Coast clear?” I ask when she returns.

“Thankfully.” She has a condom between her fingers, and she tosses her sweater back on the floor. She climbs down with me, and I watch her undo my pants and then lift my hips to help so she can yank them down my legs, along with my briefs. My pants are at my ankles now, awkwardly trapping my legs, and my stiff cock, now freed, springs back against my navel.

“I want to put it on,” she explains as she rips the packaging.

“Hot,” I say as I lift onto my elbows, and it comes out sarcastic, but I mean it. I genuinely find it hot when, instead of inconveniently fumbling with the wrapper between kisses and touches, the condom becomes part of the sex act itself.

Kenzi takes me in her hand and, slowly, massages me from base to tip. I bite back a groan and try to focus on breathing to keep my noises to a minimum, but it’s hard. Her touches coax out an ache buried inside of me, and I grant myself permission to savor this. She strokes me until I’m fully swollen, bow-taut, and only then does she roll the condom over me. She gives me a couple more pumps like this, and I can feel less of her, but the sight is no less erotic, her touch no less exciting, and when her eyes meet mine, those emeralds burn.

“Come here and kiss me,” I tell her, and she climbs over me and does. I slide my hands up the backs of her soft thighs, over her cotton panties, and squeeze as we kiss. I pull her against me and gently roll us over, so now she’s underneath me. We’re wedged on the carpeted ground between the bed and the window, but neither of us seem to care. All my thoughts dissolve at the tip of her tongue, which dances over mine in a way that turns my dick into a second heartbeat.

I roll her panties off her legs and plunge myself inside of her. Kenzi gasps, and I remind her to “be quiet, Trouble.” She’s soaking wet for me, and she whimpers softly into my mouth as I slide inside her easily. She hooks her thigh around me, her heel pressing into my rear, encouraging me deeper, and I fill her to my hilt.

She’s beautiful now—lips swollen and wet, face red, chest rising and falling rapidly as she pants in quick, shallow breaths. I rut against her, savoring her, but she hooks her hand at the back of my neck and begs, “Harder.”

So I give it to her. I stabilize myself with one palm flat on the floor, and I swing my hips into hers. She arches back and reaches up for one of the pillows, snatching it off the bed and bringing it to her face. Kenzi screams into the pillow as I fuck her so hard, I can hear our hips slap together.

I need to see her face, though, so I yank the pillow from her and catch her mouth in mine instead. She lets out a series of whimpers against my lips, and her fingers curl at my chest, at my back, nails digging in.

“Put your hand on my throat,” Kenzi says breathlessly, between thrusts.

Now here’s the thing: I don’t usually engage in physical play. I’m six foot five. Two hundred and ten pounds. I’m a walking brick house. I know how easy it is for me to seriously hurt or bruise someone—even if I don’t mean to.

But the look in her eyes tells me she wants this. My hands—like everything else about me—are big. I wrap one of them around her throat, and my fingers spread far.

Gently, I squeeze. I know the muscles here; I avoid her larynx and press my thumb and fingertips in at the sides of her throat instead. Her carotid arteries are here, but putting pressure on them for a short time is marginally less dangerous than crushing her larynx.

I watch her face intently for any signs of discomfort. “Is this okay?” I ask.

She nods—at least, as best as she can with her throat in the vise of my hand. She grips my arm and squeezes. “Harder,” she says, her voice raspy.

I increase the pressure. Her heels dig into the backs of my thighs, climbing me, and she arches against me as she struggles for breath.

I hold my own breath with her—I’m not going to make her hold hers any longer than I can. But the way she’s struggling makes me uneasy. Quickly, I release her completely from my grasp.

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