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Cry for it to come and come and keep coming until cum is what we’re both covered in.
Wes pulls my ass apart further prompting shivers to run along my spine from the unexpected added sensation, a set of actions that leads to him groaning, “Fuckkkk, baby. You really want that cum, don’t you?”
His question receives a throaty scream that’s instantly absorbed by the fabric.
“You want me to remind you that I’m the fucking apex.”
The proclamation is punctuated with hard pulls.
Harder heaves.
“That it’s me you fucking belong to.”
Whimpers and whines fight to drip down my elongated neck alongside the tiny bits of drool.
“That this is my pussy.”
It’s impossible to keep my eyes open.
To stop my nails from trying to tear into the couch.
“That this will always be fucking mine.”
Sopping wet throbs begin to occur more consistently around his dick, warning him how close I am to going over the edge.
How desperate I am to feel him join me.
“That you will always be fucking mine.” His sharp, piston-like motions, pound the promise into me one undeniable word at a time. “Only. Mine.”
On a high-pitched, muted scream, my arms carelessly curl around his neck, smashing him into my chest, smothering his savage roars between my tits as I do my best to withstand the unstoppable withering that’s invading my system. Wes barely manages to execute two more thrusts before my pussy mercilessly milks from him exactly what he’s ripping out of me. Our carnal cries incessantly fuse together to the same relentless rhythm of our orgasms until we’ve merged into one, sweaty, breathless, mixture of twitches and murmurs.
I really am only Weston Wilcox’s.
And no matter what lies ahead…I always will be.
Chapter 12
Wes
“This is a terrible idea. We should’ve just left her and her headaches in the idle threats to ignore file,” Evie bitterly snips underneath her breath from the seat to my left. “I do not condone this course of action.”
“I don’t either,” Pham hisses from the chair beside her. “And neither does legal.”
“Noted,” I casually announce while tightening the black tie that’s resting on top of my black dress shirt.
“Did you have to wear black on black like we’re attending a supervillain’s funeral?” chastises my personal publicist in her continued hushed volume. “You couldn’t have picked a lighter color shirt with a power tie like J.T.?” She shoots him a small air kiss. “You look like perfection.”
Like the kiss ass head of the class he is, he sits a little taller in the cushiony conference room chair.
I don’t need her praise.
Just like I don’t technically need her approval or her presence.
It’s my name on the company.
Therefore, it’s my decision.
And my decision to engage in a civilized sit-down with Monica Simmons is one they’ll all be grateful for later.
