Page 70 of Lovingly Restored

My shorts are twisted and riding up. He rubs a palm over my exposed pussy, patting me gently to prove his point.

“You’re so fucking ready for me, Ashlyn,” he praises.

A thick finger presses inside me with no warning. I don’t want his fucking fingers, so I tell him as much. “No, I want you.”

“Tell me what you want, Ashlyn. Say it.” He pushes himself against my ass.

“I want to sleep with you.”

He tuts his tongue in disapproval.

“I want you to...fuck me.”

“There we are. Good girl.”

Fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for protection, I watch him get ready. We’re both panting unabashedly by the time he grinds his hard dick against my ass and pussy until, at last, he slams into me in one smooth push.

“Isaac!” I cry.

“Jesus, you’re tight.”

His left hand steadies me in my precarious position, and his right reaches to toy with my clit. My miniscule shorts hide very little. He has a perfect view of his dick slamming in and out of my pussy, glistening with my wetness, and the tight hole above that. My cheeks burn with the thought, but his praise emboldens me.

I twist my neck to meet his gaze, “Are you gonna make me come on that cock?”

His cock twitches. “Ashlyn…” he warns.

I bend deeper, a delicious stretch in my hamstrings that matches the stretch of my full pussy.

He groans at my gratuitous display of flexibility, moving the hand working my clit to keep me on balance.

“Ashlyn, I can’t last much longer.”

Fine by me. This brand of fucking isn’t designed to last or be contained. Our climaxes are at the precipice of a towering waterfall. There’s no coming back from the edge now that the current swirls around us.

“Prove it,” I push.

“God damn it, Ashlyn.” He shoves his knee into my straightened legs, and they buckle, forcing me to collapse onto the couch. Hauling me up with a thick arm around my waist, he positions me on my hands and knees, facing one end of the couch. His right knee drops to the low couch for leverage, then he’s thrusting with a renewed intensity that has me seconds from release.

Being manhandled by Isaac is a fucking delight. He ruts at me, balls slapping deliciously onto the backs of my upper thighs. A light sheen of sweat coats my skin, and I couldn’t stop the impending orgasm if my life depended on it. His wild thrusts and grunts turn animalistic.

“Ashlyn! Fuck!”

We come together, riding it out as if to leave nothing behind, declarations of pleasure on our tongues. Isaac eases me down off my hands and knees, scooping me into his arms before falling onto the couch with me cradled against his naked body. Spent and sated, I rest my head against his sweaty bare chest and wait for our ragged breaths to slow.

“Why, in the ever-loving hell, have we been sleeping in our own beds?” he asks, head tipping back against the couch, eyes closed in bliss.

Because you promised this was casual.

“I have no idea.”

“You’re sleeping with me when we get home,” he states.

There’s that word again. Home.

That’s not your home. It’s your workplace.

I can’t move off of him. I’m boneless and weak-willed. I search through my mind and soul to find one good reason why I shouldn’t move my clothes into the master bedroom tomorrow. Logic eludes me. Everything pulls me toward Isaac Lauri.

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