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Twist.
They argue and make up and argue again.
Their frantic acceleration becomes promptly mimicked by our frames that propel themselves towards the nearest booth bench as our fingers work to remove the barriers between us. Banishing his loose mask and hoodie is followed by the discarding of his shoes and t-shirt, so that by the time we’re falling onto the cushioned surface minimal is left to divide us.
My back hitting the plush furniture forces us apart just long enough to inspire his mouth to seek sanctuary elsewhere. Having his teeth latch onto the side of my neck is attached to him barbarically yanking up the edge of my fitted cocktail dress, sounds of ripping stitches echoing around the room beside my choppy breathing. Possessive groans grow in numbers and intensity when his hand’s feral journey upward encounters the lace garter that houses the keycard to the cigar room.
One sharp pull splits the delicate material in two.
One careless toss sends the objects soaring in different directions.
And one hard grab of the freed area gets me tossing my hands above my head while whimpering for more.
“Mine,” is growled against my collarbone as he uses his free hand to pin my wrists in place. “All. Mine. Little. Prey.”
The salacious nickname gets me hips rocking upward, pussy anxious to be touched.
Stretched.
Filled.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands prior to dragging a single digit down my soaking wet, lower lips. “Tell me this,” it gently teases where I want his cock, “is mine.”
“Yours,” comes out shaky and breathless but without reluctance.
Pleased grumbles precede another light push along side a harder grazing from his teeth. “Again.”
“Yours.”
I’m instantly rewarded with additional nips.
“Yours.”
The spreading further of my thighs.
“Yours.”
His dick being liberated from its sweatpants prison.
“Yours, Wes.” A single, back arching thrust is my reward for the two-word proclamation; however, the action instantly inspires me to airily amend, “Only. Yours.”
Grunts of praise and approval and gratitude profusely pour out of him on every bestial pump of his cock. One by one by one, they barbarically pierce through my white-hot heat.
Pen his name in my deepest depths.
Scribble it onto every gasp and cry and scream reverberating around the room.
Winding my legs around his waist is done for leverage; however, the unintentional scraping of my heels at the small of his back seems to spur him into bucking faster.
And biting harder.
And perpetually pounding my pussy until its screeching for mercy to the same incessant speed my mouth is.
Sweat steadily slickens our figures, offering us an insight to how much time is passing, but neither of us seems capable of caring about anything that isn’t coming. His hands being stuck to my wrist and hip the way my calves are glued to his sides simply reiterates the fact. Continual ball slaps from the unrelenting rocking of his hips ignite tiny erotic trembles throughout my system, while the harsher brushes caused by his chest grinding the fabric of my dress against my nipples create much larger ones.
“You want my cum, little prey?” Wes filthily purrs beside the shell of my ear. “Is that what you want me to slip between your lips tonight?”
“Yes,” incoherently claws itself out of my vocal cords.
