Page 39 of Lovetown, USA
And I love how in tune we are already, particularly when it comes to this. Oral sex is my kryptonite. I swear, if all I could ever do sexually for the rest of my life was get head, I’d sign on the dotted line without thinking twice.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Right there.Yes. Oh, God…”
He moans while he licks, fingers digging into my ass cheeks. I don’t know why he’s holding on so tight, because I damn sure ain’t running, but I like the faint twinge of pain and the way it offsets the pleasure.
A few minutes later, I’m grateful for his foresight. I go completely limp when I cum, with only his strong hands keeping me from melting into a puddle on the floor.
I don’t open my eyes until I hear the crinkling of plastic. My eyes shift just in time to see him covering himself with a condom.
“Don’t look down there,” he says, breathless. “Ain’t shit for you to see. Gon’ head and sit on that muhfucka.”
For the second time tonight, I do what I’m told.
I sink onto him, sucking in a breath as he fills me to the brim. He yanks my shirt up over my head, tossing it aside, going straight for my nipples with his mouth.
I’m in no hurry, and I wanna go slow, but this feels urgent. Fucking him hard and fast feels like a necessity. I buck against him, up and down, in and out, using my pussy to polish his dick to a new penny shine.
God, he’s so sexy. I love a man who isn’t afraid to make noise. I hear it all. The low growls, rough grunts, desperate moans, whispered curses. He’s so deep, I feel like we’re conjoined, and for that, I’m grateful. It feels so good, he’d have to surgically remove my pussy to get me off him.
“Fuck!” He bucks into me, pushing deeper, deep enough to make me cry out. “Pussy so good,” he murmurs against my skin.
I stare down at his face, pinched with pleasure, dipping my head to pull his bottom lip between my teeth. He hits a spot deep inside me, or maybe I’m the one who drove him there. His hand moves from my breast to my neck, and something about that touch, him fuckingcollaringme, makes my eyes roll back and my body tremble. I curl my fingers around his forearm, but not out of fear. I relish the feel of the corded muscles against my fingertips, savoring the power beneath his skin.
We’re singing the same song, now, moving perfectly in sync. And as my fingers tighten around his arm, his squeeze the sideof my neck. I explode suddenly and unexpectedly, a pleasant surprise that leaves me keening softly. He doesn’t let me finish before he shatters, his groans drowning me out as he releases, throbbing deep inside of me, over and over again until we’re both sweaty and limp and satisfied.
12
Trey
City Hall looks justlike how I remember it.
The building itself is right at the center of the town square. It’s moderately sized, but the stately white columns are quick to remind you that some serious shit goes down in here.
Inside, it’s even colder than my office. Heels click loudly across the checkerboard marble floor. Walls are covered in framed photos of the mayors who once governed these halls. Most are white men. A few black men, an Asian man, and then there’s our very own Mayor Daphne Davis.
I check my watch, irritated as hell that I closed up early for this. I’ve been sitting in this hard, narrow chair outside her office for over an hour. My leg bounces repeatedly, earning me a side-eye from Monica, the mayor’s aide.
“How much longer?” I call to her.
She shrugs and tosses another almond in her mouth. She’s been crunching on those things for thirty minutes, now.
Finally, at long fucking last, the door opens and there she is, leaning against the frame like she just stepped out of a photoshoot. Bright red dress, red lipstick, high heels. She’s bad as fuck. Always has been. That’s not even in question.
I stand just as her perfume makes it way to my nostrils. “Mayor Davis.”
“Doctor,” she says with a voice wrapped in velvet. “Come on in.”
I keep my expression neutral as I follow her inside.
The wide mahogany desk gleams under the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s way too large for a lady of her stature, but she looks right at home sitting behind it. An arrangement of white roses sits next to a picture of her shaking hands with our governor. It, like the desk and the woman herself, says power, order, and control.
I take the chair across from her desk, heaving a sigh as I do.
“You okay?” she says, tilting her head. “You seem tense. Was traffic bad?”
“Traffic was fine when I got here. An hour ago,” I add.
She smiles. “I’m a busy woman.”
