Page 47 of Filthy Little Secret

It’s Darlene’s voice.

“I’m changing!” he shouts, his head turned just enough so I can see his eyes roll back as he enjoys the sensations my cock is stirring within him.

“Changing? What are you changing for? The suit looks good. Did you even bring a change of clothes?”

He’s panting, struggling to regain his bearings enough to think of something to say, I’m sure.

“I grabbed a drink from the bar and spilled it on my shirt,” he says. “I have another in my backpack.”

“It’ll be fine if you button your blazer up. Mark, let me in—”

“Mom, now is not the time.”

She sighs. “Just get out here quickly. It’ll seem strange if you’re not mingling.”

“Okay.”

He continues breathing heavily.

He turns to me, desire in his eyes. They roll back slightly again.

“You like that cock in your ass?” I ask.

“How does it fucking hit all the right nerves like that? Fuck me. Fuck me hard. I need you to make me spew.”

I pick up where we left off, pushing into him. He reaches his hand behind his head and grabs my neck, pulling me toward him. My arms still around him, I clutch the placket of his shirt and he grips the other side with his free hand and pulls tight so it rips the top buttons off. We pull together and rip the rest.

Now I’m free to massage the muscles in his torso. His chest. Those parts of him that always feel so good to me.

He rolls his head back and revels in the sensations I’m filling him with.

As his shirt slides down his shoulders to his elbows, I find myself inspired. I pull it down and twist the shirt a few times pulling his wrists together where the cufflinks are still bound to his wrists.

“Fuck yeah,” he says.

I don’t just want to fuck him like this, though. I want his kiss. I rub my nose across his face. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted any other guy I’ve been with. I want to taste every part of his body. Spill my load in every dip in his flesh.

I hate myself for how greedy I am with him.

I release his shirt and pull out of him.

He turns to me, his expression filled with confusion.

“Step over your wrists,” I say. “So they’re in front of you.”

He obeys, and when he’s done, I lean down, wrap one arm around his back, and lift his legs with my other hand.

I kiss him as I kneel, lowering him onto the floor.

He surrenders to me, as he always does.

I set him down and raise one of his legs.

His abs shift about, looking ripped as ever as I slide back inside him. Although this time I get to appreciate his expressions, the ones that always tell me when I’m hitting his prostate. Those eyes that let me know every time they roll back how much ecstasy I’m giving him.

When I’m balls deep within him again, I rediscover my stride and grab his wrists and pull them back over his head. I release them and grip the sleeves of his shirt, holding them together so they act as his bindings.

His breathing is shaky as I take him.

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