Page 31 of His to Burn
“Oh God—” I moaned as he rocked against me.
His hands were on my hips now, squeezing the ample flesh there tight enough to bruise.
“So fucking wet,” he rasped, forehead pressed to mine.
My pussy clenched every time he passed my entrance.
I wanted him inside.
There was no way to deny it, especially not when I looked down and saw his thick shaft glistening with my juices.
“Fuck!” I yelped when he hit my clit just so and sent me flying apart again.
He squeezed even tighter and then stilled, his big body racked with tremors as he painted my thighs with rope after rope of his cum.
A tear slipped out of my eye.
He caught it with his thumb, smearing it across my cheek.
Then he kissed me.
Slowly, deeply.
Like I was his.
EIGHT
Asia
I don’t know how long we stood there after.
Twenty seconds?
Twenty minutes?
Long enough to feel the weight of Jackson’s arms around my waist, the weight of his palm at the center of my back, holding me like he was staking a claim.
Long enough to hate how much I liked it.
Hate how much it comforted me.
If the cum on my thighs didn’t prove how stupid I was, that thought did.
Comfort?
Jack was a complete stranger.
He murdered a man—a friend—less than half a hour ago.
The hands that held me now were a killer’s hands.
I tried to hold onto that thought.
Tried to wrap myself in my horror at what he’d done.
But my body still craved him, the little aftershocks rocketing through me to settle in my pussy, a throbbing need that was only more acute now that he touched me.
Shame, so intense that it dried my tears and made me break his hold, gripped me.
