swollen, craved release. Slick from water and soap, he began to knead his cock, working out the tension coiled inside him. His breath puffed out in hungry, angry pants as he stroked his shaft, each touch driven by primal desires spurred by some nameless woman.
He tried to picture the face of the one he’d fucked back home, remember the way she’d climbed on all fours, spread her ass for him and the way he’d rammed inside her.
Instead Clarissa’s heart-shaped face and big catlike eyes obliterated the image. Knowing he couldn’t,
wouldn’t
have her, he allowed himself a momentary fantasy, imagined her stark naked on her knees in front of him, her breasts swaying, nipples extended where he’d twisted them to hard peaks with his fingers, her pussy damp and aching for him. But she’d resist when he tried to lift her and impale her with his cock, whispering that she wanted to eat him first.
Lips parting, she licked his rigid fullness, flicking her tongue up and down his length, circling her tongue around the tip of his penis until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Still fighting his release, he gripped her head and moaned, trying to control her movements, but she enveloped him between those rose-red lips and sucked, long, deep, throaty strokes that milked and squeezed him. His hips jerked forward as she cupped his balls in her hands and massaged them, and he rammed himself deeper into her mouth, the force of her ministrations driving him over the edge. Wild, gut-wrenching sensations of pleasure and pain pummeled him, and he roared, spurting his warm cum down her throat, titillated as she swallowed it.
He cursed and leaned against the wall, spent.
It was the closest he’d ever get to having Clarissa.
But it was not enough.
Clarissa finally lay back down on the sofa, her head pounding from the voices, her mind swirling with thoughts of Vincent. With the possibility that he might be Eerie’s only hope of salvation.
But she jerked awake an hour later, her hair damp with perspiration, her breasts heavy and aching, moisture pooling between her thighs. Odd, but she’d expected nightmares again, and the dead to visit.
Instead, another image haunted her. An image of her with Vincent Valtrez, her in submission. Her kneeling at his feet, rolling her tongue around the head of his giant cock, taking it deep inside her mouth and sucking him, feeling the warm splash of his cum slide down her throat as he plunged deeper into her mouth.
Breathing heavily, she sat up, straightened her clothing, glanced around to make sure she was alone. She could still feel the agent’s thick length inside her mouth, his hands drawing her head closer. Her body yearned to have him between her legs, pumping in and out of her, filling her.
Heaven help her. She never had sex dreams.
So why had she dreamed about
him?
And why did she suddenly sense that her dream had been a shared fantasy, that she had somehow mentally connected to the man?
That had never happened to her before.
Had he dreamt about her?
Impossible. She connected only with the dead . . .
Yet earlier, when she’d touched Tracy’s photo, she’d had a vision of her death.
Her gift must be evolving.
She stood and stretched, trying to shake off the lingering tension in her body and any thoughts of a relationship with Vincent. But her body still ached with hunger.
She had to forget the dream. She couldn’t give in to temptation and throw herself at Vincent.
He would only hurt her.
He had too much baggage. A past filled with violence, just like the job he’d chosen.
All she could hope for was that he’d stop the killer in town. Then she’d say good-bye and forget about him.
Sadie Sue spread her legs wider, closed her eyes, and let the man screw her. It was the first time he’d paid for her, and she’d been surprised when he’d bound her arms and legs to the bedposts.
Funny the secrets she could tell about the people in this town.
He squeezed her tits, pinching her
He tried to picture the face of the one he’d fucked back home, remember the way she’d climbed on all fours, spread her ass for him and the way he’d rammed inside her.
Instead Clarissa’s heart-shaped face and big catlike eyes obliterated the image. Knowing he couldn’t,
wouldn’t
have her, he allowed himself a momentary fantasy, imagined her stark naked on her knees in front of him, her breasts swaying, nipples extended where he’d twisted them to hard peaks with his fingers, her pussy damp and aching for him. But she’d resist when he tried to lift her and impale her with his cock, whispering that she wanted to eat him first.
Lips parting, she licked his rigid fullness, flicking her tongue up and down his length, circling her tongue around the tip of his penis until he couldn’t stand it any longer.
Still fighting his release, he gripped her head and moaned, trying to control her movements, but she enveloped him between those rose-red lips and sucked, long, deep, throaty strokes that milked and squeezed him. His hips jerked forward as she cupped his balls in her hands and massaged them, and he rammed himself deeper into her mouth, the force of her ministrations driving him over the edge. Wild, gut-wrenching sensations of pleasure and pain pummeled him, and he roared, spurting his warm cum down her throat, titillated as she swallowed it.
He cursed and leaned against the wall, spent.
It was the closest he’d ever get to having Clarissa.
But it was not enough.
Clarissa finally lay back down on the sofa, her head pounding from the voices, her mind swirling with thoughts of Vincent. With the possibility that he might be Eerie’s only hope of salvation.
But she jerked awake an hour later, her hair damp with perspiration, her breasts heavy and aching, moisture pooling between her thighs. Odd, but she’d expected nightmares again, and the dead to visit.
Instead, another image haunted her. An image of her with Vincent Valtrez, her in submission. Her kneeling at his feet, rolling her tongue around the head of his giant cock, taking it deep inside her mouth and sucking him, feeling the warm splash of his cum slide down her throat as he plunged deeper into her mouth.
Breathing heavily, she sat up, straightened her clothing, glanced around to make sure she was alone. She could still feel the agent’s thick length inside her mouth, his hands drawing her head closer. Her body yearned to have him between her legs, pumping in and out of her, filling her.
Heaven help her. She never had sex dreams.
So why had she dreamed about
him?
And why did she suddenly sense that her dream had been a shared fantasy, that she had somehow mentally connected to the man?
That had never happened to her before.
Had he dreamt about her?
Impossible. She connected only with the dead . . .
Yet earlier, when she’d touched Tracy’s photo, she’d had a vision of her death.
Her gift must be evolving.
She stood and stretched, trying to shake off the lingering tension in her body and any thoughts of a relationship with Vincent. But her body still ached with hunger.
She had to forget the dream. She couldn’t give in to temptation and throw herself at Vincent.
He would only hurt her.
He had too much baggage. A past filled with violence, just like the job he’d chosen.
All she could hope for was that he’d stop the killer in town. Then she’d say good-bye and forget about him.
Sadie Sue spread her legs wider, closed her eyes, and let the man screw her. It was the first time he’d paid for her, and she’d been surprised when he’d bound her arms and legs to the bedposts.
Funny the secrets she could tell about the people in this town.
He squeezed her tits, pinching her
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