Page 124 of Tips and Trysts

“It looks good. Your hole swallows it perfectly.”

He releases a groan. “Please keep fucking me.”

I do—and my sated body comes to life in the surreality of the moment. I’m kneeling behind a guy who could have anyone—anything—he wants by any definition possible. He’s gorgeous. Sex on legs. Brilliant and charming and deliciously cocky. I’m surrounded by piles of cash, and he’s letting me work him slowly, indulgently.

“Shit,” Everett blurts out after I pull the cock out and press the entire thing right back into him.

“There it is,” I murmur, reaching and running my hand over his cock, feathering my fingertips over his piercing. “So good. Tight and perfect. You were made for this.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s so pretty,” I assure him. “I can’t wait for you to see it—to see how much your body wants it. How much—fuck—”

My words get strangled by a moan when Everett turns on the vibrator inside the harness.

Briefly, I’m lost to the sensation of a hum against my cunt. It’s a potent sensation, one from deep in the heart of my pleasure center, and it unfurls to the far reaches of my body within seconds. The immediacy is heady.

I roll my hips, outright pounding him now, using him like he’s used me when I’ve bent over for him: rough and reverent. And when he grits out, “Yes, stuff it inside me. Make me earn it,” I realize: What we’re doing is about respect.

Nobody has ever showed their respect for me like this—their complete and unconditional recognition of my worth. To give me this, to make himself vulnerable to me, is the greatest gift Everett could give me.

It’s a gift to him too, I hope, when I find his prostate. He releases the most satisfied moan—and he turns up the vibrator.

Our bodies are inextricable, like two cords knotted together. The pleasure is rising in me, crackling through my veins like lightning. I thrust, letting the intensity of my motions align with the flicker of the vibrator. “You’re incredible,” I assure him.

“You’re filthy,” he responds while groaning an ungodly sound, gripping the sheets with his full fists. He lowers his head to the mattress, burying his face in it, and through the muffled sound of him speaking into the sheets, he tells me, “I love you so much. You’re fucking perfect.”

Perfect.

“A perfect slut. Stuff my hole. Please. You’re the only one who can make it good for me.”

The praise is the dirtiest I’ve ever gotten, but I want it emblazoned on my heart. I believe it. I believe and love it—because he said it.

I fuck him hard, feeling the telltale signs of his impending climax in his tight back muscles, his halted breathing, and his unceasing moans.

When he comes, he shouts my motherfucking name.

His cum is warm, and I catch as much of it as I can before I tug on his hip with my other hand. When his face is elevated near mine, I spread his spend over his chin and his lips, making a mess of him before I shove my cum-soaked fingers into his mouth.

That’s when he puts the vibrator at full speed.

My second climax of the night is slow and indulgent, a low crescendo that drags for several seconds of pure, unadulterated bliss while I fuck my boyfriend’s asshole and smear his cum over his face.

It’s a low hum of energy, powering my body like a backup generator, imbuing me with a renewed sense of power.

Breathless, sated, I know: This night was perfect.

We collapse sideways onto the bed before I pull out of him and return with a towel. I spread his cheeks and clean his hole, and he lets me without a hint of trepidation. And when I clean his face, I use my mouth. I slide my tongue over his skin, licking up the cum coating his statuesque jaw and his kiss-stained mouth until I’ve swallowed every drop. After, I curl up in front of him.

“I love you so much,” he whispers before he kisses my shoulder—the spot right above my scar. “I’ve never been so certain of anything.”

“I love you too.”

He props himself on an elbow, and I crane to look at him. His eyes lock on my face. He dips his chin.

“Are you sure?” I confirm, wondering if I should remind him of the gravity of this juncture. A twenty-one-year-old Cora once made this choice. Alone in her apartment in Cambridge, she stared out the window at the snow-coated streets, knowing nothing would ever be the same.

Everett knows the stakes—and he nods, confirming for the umpteenth time that he wants to do this.

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