Page 82 of Jingle Belle's Biker

What else am I going to do? I’m ready, not ready, but I want him in me more than anything. He stretches me, his cock pushing in, taking up space, all the way in until his hand isn’t there, but his hips are, and he’s in me. So deep I can barely stand it.

He brushes my hair back and leans over me. Drops a kiss on my upper back and then nudges my ear. “Ready for the ride?”

“Yes.”

Hands now on my hips he straightens, pulls out and then slams back in, a shard of dull discomfort spreading through me, along with a wave of pleasure. He does it again. Then again, building a deep, deep hard and fast rhythm.

The discomfort fades and soon I’m in his fever pitch, my hips moving back, wanting more. He gives it.

This is unlike any sex I’ve had. It’s hard, fast, filthy. Deep and rough. It’s everything I never knew I wanted.

I comes so damn hard, I sob.

He doesn’t stop. He slams into me over and over, through the orgasm and I come again. This time, it’s so big that I’m not sure it stops, and as he takes me, I’m pushing into him. It’s synergistic filth. It’s something I’ll dream of forever.

When he comes, he calls out one name.

Mine.

Chapter Eighteen

Saint

I tighten the screw, mind drifting back to that night she blew me—the first time.

It’s not even a week, but damn do I want more. More of her mouth, more of her cunt, more of her mouth and the laughter and banter.

We’ve had sex since, hung out, but that . . . that was something.

I don’t know, special.

After I had her on the sofa, I made her, as promised, sit on my fucking face in her bedroom, ate her out, including our combined fluids.

That was all for her.

There’s nothing like giving your girl head after you’ve come. So many fucking guys won’t go there. But ask me, they’re not real men.

A woman’s so appreciative, feels good, special, after she gets over the embarrassment. If, that is, she hasn’t had a real man. One who isn’t afraid of their own fucking cum.

Belle was Belle. Beyond embarrassed. Bewildered I’d do that, and that pisses me off. She shouldn’t be.

My instinct to not have her blow me first time we fucked was spot on. And it wasn’t like I did it to reap future rewards. There’s an air about her, has been since I first met her, since I started to get to know her, that while she’s open, she’s open to giving, not receiving.

That’s fucked in the head.

No woman of mine’s allowed to only be open to giving.

No woman of mine’s going to sleep in any fucking wet spot, only get eaten out on her birthday, or have to wash after we fuck before I eat her sweetness clean.

No woman of mine ever has. Not even when it’s been casual.

I fucking love pussy. I love being blown. I love sex. Everything fits together.

Belle?

She’s my woman. She tastes herself on me when she sucks me clean after I’ve fucked her, she swallows my cum for me when she gives me head. There’s nothing but rewards in returning the favor.

I stop.

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