Page 59 of Torrid Passion
I always suspected he was hiding greatness underneath his fitted jeans and bespoke pants. Now I know.
“I doubt a third of it will fit,” I say, my eyes still riveted to his masterpiece. “I’m sure I’ll remember you tomorrow… and the day after… and the one after that.”
I just know I’m going to choke when I suck it.
“You’re underestimating yourself.”
“I’m being practical.”
He laughs again.
“You say that now, but you’ll thank me later.”
“Thank you for splitting my pussy in two?”
“No, for hitting your G-spot.” There’s not a hint of humor on his face.
“Whoa!”
I’ve heard of the elusive G-spot. Apparently, when a guy hits it, you nearly lose your mind.
“Yeah, practicality goes out the window fast when you’re bouncing off my massive cock and I hit your sweet spot. I can just imagine how you’ll come apart while I spill my cum inside you.”
“You say things—”
“Things I mean. I want to taint every delicious part of you—your tits, pussy, stomach and your round ass. I want to make it so filthy, you’ll never be able to think of me—of us—without your pussy pulsating with need. I’m talking about the kind of need that will require immediate salvation. Heck, if I do a good job, you’ll never want another cock for the rest of your life.”
“God, that was so—”
“Dirty, lewd, obscene?”
“No. I was going to say tempting, wicked, so… yes, please,” I correct.
If my throbbing pussy is any indication, I’m ready for this big boy.
I’m so drenched, you’d never know I just came hard all over his face.
“I like the way you think,” he smiles. He approaches the bed and stands right over me, his fist still stroking his cock. “You’re going to ride me. It’s less intimidating.”
I have my doubts, but I don’t share them.
“Okay.”
“Let me sheathe this bad boy,” he says grabbing a condom from his pants. He rolls the protective shield over his cock under my careful observation. I watch, completely fascinated.
It’s raw.
Manly.
Virile.
“That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say.
“Now you know how I feel about your heavenly body,” he quips.
Crap.
It wasn’t my inner voice talking.
