Page 207 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“You just want to hear it out of me, don’t you?”

I moan when he kisses right between my breasts, his tongue following the lines of my tattoo while his explorative hand slides between my legs.

“M-May—” I don’t finish because I moan at the dip of his fingers between my folds as he purposely presses the lace fabric of my panties inward.

I know I’m dripping wet, and my juices are soaking into the lace material, further adding friction against my entrance as he moves along my folds at the perfect rhythm.

“Say maybe one more time, and I’ll opt out of taking things slow and fuck you right now, Mikayla Cross Johnson.”

God, I love when he’s so fucking possessive.

“Fucking hell, I love this side of you.” I arch my back when his fingers dip even farther into my wet pussy. I can only imagine the fine fabric is close to ripping. Matched with the idea of being in public, adding the thrill to it all, I’m quaking with desire.

“If this is what you like, Sweetheart, I’m not sure you want to know all my dangerous kinks,” he grunts. “Fuck, these panties are in my way.”

“Then get them out of the way,” I murmur, aware I’m about to unleash a beast with my provocative encouragement.

“Don’t cry about it later,” he groans and doesn’t hesitate to tug the material away. The sound of it being ripped apart satisfies me. My core spikes with heat while my pussy spasms with the need for those missing fingers that stretch me so nicely.

“Ace,” I moan in desperation, and fuck, I don’t think I can be patient for more foreplay if I’m this aroused. I’m trying to play it slow, to inch into this at a pace that’s not crazy or frightening for the both of us, but my body isn’t cooperating.

Heck, my mind can’t even think straight now.

All I want is Ace’s cock deep inside me—or anything at this moment of burning desire for bliss.

“Hold on, Mickey,” he mutters as he hovers over me so he can kiss me feverishly.

We’re lost in the intense connection, drowning in each other’s craving for affection that we’re fighting for breath when we part.

He doesn’t break eye contact with me as he leans all the way back on his knees. When I hear the sound of his zipper being undone, I look down at his sculpted frame and enjoy the massive hardness that plops out of the pocket of his briefs.

Hard, veiny, glistening with precum at the very tip.

His eyes are hooded with hunger, and those pierced nipples look so alluring, I’m fighting the urge to sit up and lick them.

He’s admiring me as I get lost in his handsome physique, leaving me feeling less nervous about this being our first alone interaction and more empowered in my feminity that’s being worshipped by this man with just his eyes.

Soon, he’ll be using his length to emphasize the power I have over him—and vice versa.

“Now, we can’t get that pretty dress dirty, Sweetheart,” he coos and wets his lips. “Take it off for me.”

I’d do anything this man tells me to. My arms move to lift the beautiful fabric up and over my head. My hair tumbles down, and I scoot back just slightly so he can get a good view of my naked figure.

Words can’t describe the way his eyes take me in.

Inch by inch.

Admiring and appreciatively lingering on the places I know he wants to taunt and tease from how his tongue is dancing along his bottom lip in thirst.

His breath is just as out of control as mine, yet our stillness is everything.

It’s contributing to the build.

The rise and burning magnitude of sexual desire pulsing between us.

We need to make a move, yet neither of us wants to. Just to draw this out a little longer.

He looks like a descending god, especially with how the sun peaks from the clouds and shines perfectly into his Jeep.

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