Page 18 of Live Love Steal
He pinched one of the points to argue with me. The sting sent a sharp twinge directly to my pussy, causing it to spasm around his cock.
He felt it. The way his eyes locked on mine with a question, and the way his fingers hovered over my nipples proved it.
“Do it again.”
This time, he rolled both tips between his fingers before slowly applying pressure. I groaned and immediately felt embarrassed at the low, guttural sound that slipped out. I checked his face.
His grin was devilish, and he rolled them again, applying the same pressure. I rocked, positioning against him so my clit pressed against his flesh.
In the doing, I lost track of reality. This was amazing. I’d never really given myself permission to do exactly what I wanted during sex. But each time I clocked back in to confirm that Sketch was right there with me, he gave me that look, or a nod of encouragement, or best of all, words.
“That’s it, beautiful, grind that cunt on me.”
Dirty talk. Filthy dirty talk.
You’re so slick, it feels good, doesn’t it? Go harder, take me deeper, that’s it. Grind on me. Feel me. Rock that pussy on my cock.
Who was this woman?
My orgasm hovered around me, almost like a cloak. I could grab it any time, but I kept it hanging there, suspended as I finally focused on Sketch. Gave him what he needed. Took control and brought him into that state of hyperawareness right along with me.
And he stopped playing with my tits and grabbed my hips to thrust up, hard. Once, twice, then a rapid, panicked succession of hard pounding I couldn’t keep pace with, so I rode it out, pinching my own tits exactly how I liked it and…
Came hard.
His moans joined mine, fevered and anguished, almost pitching into desperation.
I collapsed on his chest, and we panted away the moments.
My head was spinning. I’d never lost control like that before.
Holy shit.
My breath was shaky as I exhaled the emotions racing through my blood.
Sketch’s hands brushed up my naked back and gathered my hair together. He tugged on it slightly to get my attention. “That was good.”
It was. Transcendent, altering. I could get used to this.
I kissed him languidly. The outside world could wait with its troubles and jobs and news…
Wait a minute. “Did you turn the TV on?”
Sketch tensed and listened. “Fuck,” he hissed. Louder, he said, “Who the fuck is in my house?”
I rolled off him, grabbing the sheet.
“Just me, Sketch,” a low voice sounded just outside the bedroom.
“Make yourself at home, Bear. Out there. You set one foot inside this room?—”
A huge, dark-haired monster of a man peeked around the corner. “What’s that?”
“Motherfucker!” Sketch stood up, the condom hanging from his dick. I scrambled to roll off the other side of the bed and find clothing. Any clothing. It didn’t matter if it was his or mine, I just needed to be dressed.
Meanwhile, Sketch strode forward. “Get your ass on that barstool and don’t fucking get off it.” He pushed his friend, who must have had at least a hundred pounds on Sketch, but Bear moved out of the door frame and back where I couldn’t see him. Belatedly, I thought the nickname fit the interloper well.
“Dude, do something about that thing hanging off your dick. Jesus. I’m blind.” Bear’s complaint filtered through the wall.
