Page 92 of Desperate Actions

I know his words are over the top. And that they should bother me. But really, I want him to do that.

I want the erotic picture he painted with his raw language.

Sammy’s chest rumbles as he touches me. He’s so careful. So steady and sure as he positions me just right.

My nostrils fill with his spicy masculine scent, and I swear, my mouth waters.

His big hands grip my hips, holding me steady, and then I feel it.

The thick, blunt head of his cock spearing my lips, pushing inside me.

Stretching me.

Filling me.

Andit feels so good.

“That’s it, Pixie. Take me. Let me fill you up.”

Sammy’s voice is raw, guttural, his breath hot against my skin as he drives himself deeper, inch by thick, stretching inch.

I gasp, my fingers clutching the sheets, my body burning up from the inside out.

“Oh, God!” I moan.

“Not God. Sammy or Husband,” he tells me.

“Sammy! Fuck. Sammy, it feels so good.”

I don’t know what magic this is, what devil’s deal he made to know my body so perfectly, but the head of his cock nudges something deep inside me, something untouched, unknown, uncontrollable, and I am already unraveling.

“So fucking good,” he murmurs.

His praise is melting into my bones, seeping into the darkest, most desperate parts of me.

Then he withdraws, pulling out just enough to make me feel the loss.

Only to slam back in.

Hard.

Perfect.

Over and over again.

The force of it shoves me forward, my body rocking beneath him, my breasts bouncing with every brutal, precise thrust.

I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t do anything but take it.

And fuck, that’s all I want to do.

To be taken.

To be used, worshipped, ruined by this man who owns every inch of me.

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