Page 57 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
He doesn’t stop, not even when my knees give out and I slide down the cabinet, boneless and half feral. He licks me clean, slow and thorough, then stands, his mouth shiny and red. He wipes it with the back of his hand and kisses me, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
I expect him to slow down, to give me a second to breathe, but he’s already unzipping his jeans, pulling them down with a frantic energy that is somehow both comical and terrifying. His cock is thick and flushed, already leaking, and I reach for it before I can think twice. I wrap my hand around the base and stroke, feeling the shudder run through his entire body.
He looks at me, eyes wild. “You want this?”
I nod, because what else is there?
He lifts me onto the counter, palms under my ass, spreading my legs wide. He lines himself up, rubbing the tip against my entrance, and then slides in, slow at first, stretching me inch byinch. The pain is sharp, then sweet, and I moan, clawing at his shoulders.
He fucks me hard, all rhythm and force, hips slamming into mine. My nails rake his back, leaving red trails, and he just grins, loving the violence of it.
He leans in close, breath hot against my ear. “Look at you,” he whispers. “You’re fucking gorgeous like this. Wild.”
I squeeze around him, trying to milk every last drop of sensation from the moment, and he groans, pace stuttering. He grabs my chin, forces me to meet his eyes, and there’s nothing soft about it.
He spins me so I’m facing the wall, and spanks me once, hard enough to leave a print. The pain blooms, sharp and sweet, and I grind back against him, hungry for more.
He drops to his knees, spreads my ass with both hands, and buries his face in my cunt. His tongue is everywhere, lapping up the mess he made, nose pressed against my skin, breathing me in like oxygen. He laps at me, alternating between slow, torturous licks and rapid-fire flicks of his tongue over my clit. I grab the edge of the door, knuckles white, and try not to scream when he pushes two fingers in, curling them up to find the spot that makes me sob. He eats me like he’s starving, licking and sucking until I can’t see straight, until my thighs start to shake and my voice cracks on his name.
He stands, dick flushed and leaking. He lines up and slams in with no warning, filling me so fast I choke on my own breath. He fucks me from behind, hard, one hand in my hair, the other gripping my hip. I brace myself on the wall, every thrust knocking the air out of my lungs, every slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty space. He leans in close, voice guttural: “You love it like this, don’t you? Getting fucked like this.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth is open but all that comes out is a wrecked gasp and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
He pounds me until my legs go out, then lifts me up. He sets me on the counter, shoves my knees apart, and eats me again, grinning at me the whole time. He strokes himself, then pushes me back on the counter and drives his cock in. He fucks me again, this time slow, dragging it out, letting me feel every inch. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in deeper, nails digging into his shoulders. I want to mark him, want to leave a map of bruises.
He slows, buries his face in my neck, and whispers, “I want to see you lose it again.”
He slides in again, and this time, when he pulls out, he flips me over and fucks me from behind, hands fisted in my hair, dragging my head back so I have to look at myself in the mirror above the dresser. I watch the way my mouth goes slack, the way my tits bounce, the way my whole body shakes every time he drives into me.
“Look at yourself,” he says, voice dark and sweet. “See how perfect you are like this?”
He grabs a fistful of my hair, forces my face inches from the mirror. I see myself: face flushed, eyes wild, lips swollen from kissing. I see him behind me, muscles tense, jaw clenched, eyes locked on mine in the glass.
He moves his hand to my throat, squeezing just enough to make my blood race, and fucks me faster, deeper, until my voice is nothing but a broken moan. He slaps my ass, hard, then rubs it, soothing the sting.
“You gonna come for me again?” he says, a dare.
I nod, gasping.
“Say it.”
I swallow, throat dry. “I’m gonna come for you. Please—don’t stop?—”
He doesn’t. He fucks me harder, hand tight around my neck, the other between my legs, rubbing my clit until I explode, coming so hard I nearly faint. He pulls out, jerks himself, and comes all over my back, painting my skin with heat.
He collapses next to me, breathing ragged, then rolls me onto my side and wipes me clean with his shirt.
For a minute, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the rush of air in my lungs, the pulse in my temples, the soft thud of his heart under my cheek as I rest my head on his chest.
He strokes my hair, slow and lazy, then kisses the top of my head.
“Never thought I’d get you to let go like that,” he says, voice thick.
I want to tell him this is a one-time thing, that we’ll never do it again, that I’m just blowing off steam. But it’s a lie, and we both know it.
Instead, I roll over, straddle his hips, and pin his hands above his head. He grins, lets me take control, and this time, when I fuck him, it’s slow and mean, drawing it out until he’s begging.
I ride him until my thighs ache, until I’m trembling with the effort, until I come again, this time with his name on my lips, loud and clear.
