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“For what?”
“To run.”
“I’m not going to run. Do I look like a runner? No. Besides, you’re drunk and I’m here to take advantage of it.”
“I’m not drunk, Scarlett.” He moves in close, dropping my hand as he cradles my face with both of his hands. “I had a few, but I’m in complete control.”
“Why are we talking?”
He smiles slow and kisses me. Soft, once, and I’m on him, hands under his shirt and he’s on me, tugging at the buttons of my shirt, down to the side zip of the trousers I’m wearing and the kisses grow hot and hard as each article of clothing comes off.
And then he’s against me. Flesh against flesh and he is a living specimen of male fantasy. His hands are on my hips as he thrusts against me, letting me know his need and then he pushes me back and I go, landing on something soft and big—the bed. I’m paying absolutely zero attention to the room we’re in. Everything I do is focused on him and the need and urgency growing.
The lighting is a low and soft glowing amber, and the room is big like the bed and he lands on me, pushes my thighs apart with one hand, his mouth hot once more on mine. This time the kisses are drugging and long and deep, the type to sink into, and reach for more.
And his fingers on my thigh are a whispering tease as they slip higher until he’s stroking the lips of my pussy, light and feathery. I’m wet, I’m aching. It’s that deep, throbbing ache that needs to be assuaged by him inside me.
Back and forth he goes, building a rhythm, one of his thighs pinning one of mine so I’m spread open to him and half trapped. His cock is there, and hot and erect, and I need to touch it.
I reach down and wrap my fingers around the thick girth and tease the head with my thumb and he growls low in the back of his throat.
His fingers tease higher, just to my clit, not quite touching, and I try to move to them, to have him on my sensitive bud, but he just laughs, and I give him a squeeze.
“Hungry girl.” I do it again, teasing him back, this time pumping him slow and using the precum to slide back and forth over the head of his cock.
“You keep that up,” he mutters in my ear, one of his fingers pushing into my wetness, between the folds and into my pussy and I convulse, little butterfly wings of an orgasm around that sweet invasion, “and this is going to be all you’re getting for a while.”
“Are you saying you’ll be coming in your pant—oh!—pants.”
The fucker does it again, pushing in with another finger, staying shy of my clit, and he thrusts in and out, giving me a taste of real satisfaction but holding it from me like some sadistic creature.
“I’m not wearing pants.” He punctuates each word with small bites on my throat, accompanied by a thrust of his fingers into me.
“Just—oh, God…” I’m writhing as he now begins a measured assault around my clit, not quite going for that nirvana I need. “Just fuck me, Hudson.”
“Your pussy is so tight and wet. I bet it tastes sweet. Do you?”
“I’m not that flexible.”
He laughs and pulls his fingers from me, and then my hand from his cock and he moves down me, kissing and licking a trail over my burning skin, until he reaches my pussy.
Hudson licks me. All the way from top to bottom and back again, dipping inside me, sucking my clit into his mouth and teasing it gently with his tongue, and I scream. I actually scream.
My hands are in his hair, tight and I half orgasm, but he pulls away again.
Diabolical bastard. He pulls the fuck away and comes back up me, this time his body on mine, heavy between me, my thighs either side of him and he kisses me and I can taste myself on him.
“Sweet,” he says.
I’m too busy drawing up my knees and pushing up with my hips to try to get him to fuck me, to put that thick cock where I need it. I try to reach down, but he stops me, pinning a wrist down to the bed next to us. And then he uses his other hand and pushes his cock against my entrance, once, twice, and then again. Again and again, he pushes right there, my lips moving to take him and again and again he retreats.
“You’ll be sweet in tiny pieces if you don’t fuck me.”
“Vicious,” he says, licking along my throat, “aren’t you? If only the ladies in the Hamptons could see you now.”
“They’d see you, too.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t care about anything but this. I’ve gone and lost my mind.
“I don’t fucking care if they do.”
