arching to his hand’s increasing cadence. He pinched her swollen clitoris.
She shrieked.
Too close to shooting his wad, he worked her through her frenzied climax and shifted so he could suckle her breast. He cuddled her close and waited for her breathing to return to normal. “Open your eyes.”
Ever so slowly, her lids lifted, and he choked back a victorious hoorah at her dazed expression. Only the desperate need to be inside her gave him the strength to withdraw his fingers from her drenched sex.
He vaulted to his feet, shed his pants on a pulse beat, settled onto the carpet between her legs, threw her knees over his shoulders and drove home.
“So good, Angel. You feel so fucking good.” Words, the ability to string them together, vanished on his next plunge and retreat. He totally lost it and hammered into her with a frenetic fever. His balls contracted, he shuddered when the orgasm crashed through him, and dug his toes into the rug. Her pussy walls fisted around him, and he exploded into her, the sperm shooting out of him in flaming spurts. He threw back his head and roared her name.
It took him a while to come back into his skin. Too sated to compose a sentence, he rested his forehead on hers, and allowed himself the sheer pleasure of simply feeling. His cock was turgid and throbbing. Her vaginal muscles tensed around his dick and milked a few more drops of sperm from him. He wanted to prolong being inside her sweet heat, dredged up a few remnants of self-control, and rolled them over.
He arranged her so she straddled his groin and the change in position seated him deeper. He growled her name when a wave of aftershocks hit her, and she, once again, convulsed around his dick. To his amazement, semen burst out of him in a short but fiery squirt.
She sighed, her warm breath tickled the hair on his chest, and she sank into him. A few seconds later, a me-Tarzan-you-Jane smile chased his lips.
His Angel had fallen asleep. He sighed when his dick went flaccid, and he slipped out of her sweet heat.
Satan wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Had sex ever been like this for him? He searched his memory banks and came up empty. Not even with his first and only fall-in-love relationship had he ever felt so complete, so replete. She was dangerous for him, his Angel.
Already, he had decided to extend their time together. Why else would he have paid a fortune to have the master bedroom redone in seven hours? He wanted her comfortable in his home. He wanted her to want to stay with him, needed to have her break in the New Year with him. The penthouse condo he owned in Manhattan, but rarely used, had been readied for the two of them. From there, they could watch the ball drop together.
The blazing flames in the fireplace angled on a gust of cool air. He craned his neck, searched for the throw he usually kept draped on his reading chair, and spied the soft chenille crumpled around one of the clawed feet. Grinned because it was within reaching distance, he stretched one arm back, and scrabbled the cloth into his grip. He retrieved the throw, settled the warm textile around her shoulders, back, and legs, smoothed a curl off her cheek, and relaxed.
He had long ago given up on the idea of marriage and family. Never, not once in the last decade had he wavered on what his future would be. He saw himself alone, enjoying life from the outside through his squad who were all happily married and having kids. He had too much baggage for any woman to put up with, was too damaged, and would not infect anyone else. How was it then that those forbidden thoughts about happy-ever-after had begun snaking their way into his head since meeting Angel?
He glanced down at her, and a tidal wave of tenderness crashed over him. Awake, she appeared ten years younger than the twenty-seven her driver’s license claimed, but asleep, if it weren’t for her luscious bod, Angel could pass for fifteen.
The contrast between the two
She shrieked.
Too close to shooting his wad, he worked her through her frenzied climax and shifted so he could suckle her breast. He cuddled her close and waited for her breathing to return to normal. “Open your eyes.”
Ever so slowly, her lids lifted, and he choked back a victorious hoorah at her dazed expression. Only the desperate need to be inside her gave him the strength to withdraw his fingers from her drenched sex.
He vaulted to his feet, shed his pants on a pulse beat, settled onto the carpet between her legs, threw her knees over his shoulders and drove home.
“So good, Angel. You feel so fucking good.” Words, the ability to string them together, vanished on his next plunge and retreat. He totally lost it and hammered into her with a frenetic fever. His balls contracted, he shuddered when the orgasm crashed through him, and dug his toes into the rug. Her pussy walls fisted around him, and he exploded into her, the sperm shooting out of him in flaming spurts. He threw back his head and roared her name.
It took him a while to come back into his skin. Too sated to compose a sentence, he rested his forehead on hers, and allowed himself the sheer pleasure of simply feeling. His cock was turgid and throbbing. Her vaginal muscles tensed around his dick and milked a few more drops of sperm from him. He wanted to prolong being inside her sweet heat, dredged up a few remnants of self-control, and rolled them over.
He arranged her so she straddled his groin and the change in position seated him deeper. He growled her name when a wave of aftershocks hit her, and she, once again, convulsed around his dick. To his amazement, semen burst out of him in a short but fiery squirt.
She sighed, her warm breath tickled the hair on his chest, and she sank into him. A few seconds later, a me-Tarzan-you-Jane smile chased his lips.
His Angel had fallen asleep. He sighed when his dick went flaccid, and he slipped out of her sweet heat.
Satan wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Had sex ever been like this for him? He searched his memory banks and came up empty. Not even with his first and only fall-in-love relationship had he ever felt so complete, so replete. She was dangerous for him, his Angel.
Already, he had decided to extend their time together. Why else would he have paid a fortune to have the master bedroom redone in seven hours? He wanted her comfortable in his home. He wanted her to want to stay with him, needed to have her break in the New Year with him. The penthouse condo he owned in Manhattan, but rarely used, had been readied for the two of them. From there, they could watch the ball drop together.
The blazing flames in the fireplace angled on a gust of cool air. He craned his neck, searched for the throw he usually kept draped on his reading chair, and spied the soft chenille crumpled around one of the clawed feet. Grinned because it was within reaching distance, he stretched one arm back, and scrabbled the cloth into his grip. He retrieved the throw, settled the warm textile around her shoulders, back, and legs, smoothed a curl off her cheek, and relaxed.
He had long ago given up on the idea of marriage and family. Never, not once in the last decade had he wavered on what his future would be. He saw himself alone, enjoying life from the outside through his squad who were all happily married and having kids. He had too much baggage for any woman to put up with, was too damaged, and would not infect anyone else. How was it then that those forbidden thoughts about happy-ever-after had begun snaking their way into his head since meeting Angel?
He glanced down at her, and a tidal wave of tenderness crashed over him. Awake, she appeared ten years younger than the twenty-seven her driver’s license claimed, but asleep, if it weren’t for her luscious bod, Angel could pass for fifteen.
The contrast between the two
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