Page 47 of The Spark

There was no rush, but there was need. Deep, aching, whole-body need. We kissed like we were starving for breath and only each other could give it.

His hands slid to my hips, pulling me closer, pressing me back until I felt the cool wall against my spine. He caged me in, body against mine, his mouth moving from my lips to my jaw, then to my neck.

“I’ve been wanting you like this all night,” he murmured, voice rough. “Couldn’t stop thinking about bending you against a wall and taking my time.”

“Do it,” I breathed.

He growled low in his throat, both hands sliding up under my dress, bunching it at my waist. His fingers hooked my panties and dragged them down my legs, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes dragging down my body. “You’re already wet for me.”

I was. Dripping.

He dropped to his knees, kissed my inner thighs, then licked up my slit with a hunger that made me whimper.

The wall behind me shook slightly with each moan he pulled from me, my palms flat against it, trying to hold myself up as his mouth sucked and licked and fucked me open until my legs trembled.

“Amir—” I gasped, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t…”

“Yes you can,” he growled, tongue swirling over my clit before he stood again.

He turned me around, pressed me to the wall, chest to my back, one hand braced beside my head.

“You remember what you said at dinner?” he whispered against my ear, rubbing the thick length of him along my folds. “That you wanted something real?”

I nodded, breath catching.

“Then let me give it to you.”

He pushed into me slow, deep, groaning as my pussy stretched to take him.

My cheek pressed to the wall, my hands splayed beside my head, his dick dragging through me with that perfect, devastating pressure. Each stroke was controlled. Firm. Filthy. Beautiful.

He fucked me against that wall like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His hand slipped around my throat, not tight—just there, holding me in place. Reminding me he had me where he wanted me.

“Amaya,” he breathed. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

I moaned, pushing back against him, meeting each thrust with my own need, my body hot and shaking, slick sounds filling the room as he drove into my pussy.

“Faster,” I begged. “Harder.”

He yanked my braids gently, angled my neck back, kissed the shell of my ear. “Say it again.”

“Harder. Please.”

He fucked me rough then. Deep and possessive, one hand gripping my hip, the other wrapped in my braids as he slammed into me over and over until my voice broke.

And when I came, I screamed into the empty room, the orgasm ripping through me as he held me upright, still stroking through my aftershocks.

He turned me around and kissed me hard—wet, deep, like he wasn’t done.

And he wasn’t.

He lifted me in one fluid motion and carried me down the hall, straight to the unfinished bedroom, removing the tarp covering his bedding.

He laid me gently on the bdd , kissed down my chest, over my stomach, then filled me again—slow this time, deep, his body pressed tight to mine as we rocked together, the city lights bleeding through the window.

“Let me love you for real this time,” he whispered.

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