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Beatrice suddenly pushed herself upright. “You touched me,” she accused him.
“Did you hate it?” he asked, not needing the answer.
“I told you I wanted you inside me!” she snapped before reaching between their bodies. Her hand jerked away from the mess he’d made. “Did you…?”
“Oh, yeah.” He couldn’t contain his smirk of satisfaction. “I’m totally tapped out.”
“That’s—” She glared, scrambling off of him. “Goddammit, Montrell!”
He couldn’t hold in his chuckle either. “Don’t play. You feel good.”
She shook her head before her chin dipped and she frowned at the floor. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”
And at that, his satisfaction fled. “I know. But it was what you needed.” Her head snapped up, and a fierce glare followed. His cock stirred as her gaze settled on him.
“Fuck off,” she growled, turning to flee.
“Wait, let me clean—”
He tried to sit up, but the knife she’d left behind nearly impaled him. He moved it to the nightstand as the door slammed behind her, and then he flopped back onto his bed. He hadn’t been lying to her. His orgasm had wrecked him even though he hadn’t gotten inside her. He closed his eyes to remember every moment, ready to polish the memory for another round in the shower once he had the energy to move again.
Chapter 13
Beatrice dove into the shower, nightgown and all. Even her hair was sticky. She had cum coating her thighs, but not in the way she’d expected. Montrell hadn’t filled her. The brief sensation of his finger had been deeper inside her than she’d been able to force his cock.
Montrell’s fingers were thick, but not as thick as his cock. She’d expected that. As a younger woman, she had once teased him about his monster penis.
He could have put it inside her. Instead he’d orgasmed while she wasn’t even touching him.
Her husband had never done that. He’d said it was his right to come inside her. Children had been a dream of his, a dream that remained unfulfilled, and she was grateful for that.
Sex with the Albanian hadn’t hurt in the beginning. Remembering that only confused her. On their wedding night, her husband had actually tried to turn her on, but she couldn’t get her mind wrapped around the idea that she’d married the wrong man. That he’d stopped trying had been her just desserts for wishing for someone else.
Losing her virginity with Montrell hadn’t hurt, not like being with her husband over the years, despite Montrell’s size. He’d made her orgasm first. More than once.
She’d forgotten what that felt like. Had almost convinced herself that the past didn’t exist. She hadn’t wanted pleasure at all, but her body still had a pulsing, throbbing heartbeat inside.
It shouldn’t have surprised her that her body had betrayed her. Her body was a fucking bitch. She grabbed her loofah, ready to rub her skin raw. The tingles along her arms as she scrubbed reminded her of how she’d felt on top of Montrell, and she threw the loofah into the corner of the shower, fuming, wanting to scream.
For the first time in years, she was wet down there. It was the lube. Given how much Montrell had used, his bottle had to be empty. She’d never used lube before, and she kept passing her soapy hands over her body over and over again, wishing her mind would turn off.
She left the nightgown in a puddle on the shower floor when she emerged. Her body felt heavy, as if for once it truly wanted sleep. She’d regret crawling into the sheets with wet hair in the morning, but the heaviness was taking her under, even as the slight throb down below reminded her of her idiocy.
“Please,” Montrell begged, giving Vespa the look that often made her cave.
Vespa made a growl in her throat as she crossed her arms and looked away. She’d sat on the table to listen to his request, one that was not going over well. “Forget it.”
“Come on. I said please,” he cajoled.
She rolled her eyes. “Like that matters. No means no.”
Montrell sighed. He’d known that was what she would say, but he had to ask all the same. The more he thought about the night before, the more inept he realized he was. Beatrice should talk to another woman.
“It’s not like it’d kill you,” he muttered. He doubted Beatrice would have opened up to Vespa anyway.
“It might’ve,” Vespa said, but she was grinning as she suddenly went on the attack. Right for his armpits.
He was ticklish as fuck.
