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“Yes!” I squeak.
He bounces up from the bed, tearing at his clothes. I just lay there as he disrobes. A minute later, he is standing in front of me in gray boxers, his erection tugging at the fabric.
“You’re still dressed. Should I do the undressing?”
I nod, afraid that if I opened my mouth, nothing would come out. Foster perches on the edge of the bed, pushing away the rest of the covers. He then focuses his green eyes on mine as he unbuttons my shirt, gasping as he reveals my tiny scrap of panties.
“I’d like to lick you. If you’re as sweet down there as your skin tastes, I’ll never need dessert.”
“Please.” I am sure the minute his tongue touches me, I will combust.
Foster tugs at my panties, and before I can lift my hips, they tear in his hands. He yanks the piece from around me, dropping it to the floor as he moves between my legs. Next, he spreads my thighs with his hands, gently stroking a finger between my pulsing folds. I can’t look anywhere but his face when he sticks the digit in his mouth.
“If I knew you tasted this good, I would’ve done this sooner.”
He again lowers his head, gently biting into my tender inner thigh. I shift, and he presses his hands on my legs to steady me as if I would swim away like a fish fighting for its life. I am powerless to do anything but wait for the orgasm I know will render me weak and boneless.
Foster spread my lips wide, taking long licks from my entrance to my clit. He groans as he strokes his tongue up and down. I join him, gripping the soft sheets in my fists, arching my back as I grow close.
“Hold it, Paige,” he whispers. “Don’t come.”
“Are you mad? I can’t stop this,” I pant.
“I want you to come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me dry.”
He climbs off the bed, tears off his boxers, and I whimper as I balance on the edge of an orgasm. Taking him in, I gasp at his size. Foster’s penis is topped with a wide head that I am sure will tear me open as soon as he enters me.
“I’ll be gentle.”
Positioning himself at my slick tunnel, I start to scream as he thrusts hard. He pounds into me, pinning his hand over my mouth while chanting, “This is what you get! This is what you get!”
His body is heavy and holds me down. I struggle, but can barely move, barely breathe. My urge to orgasm disappears as tears roll down the sides of my face, and he still slams into me, unaware or uncaring about me. Foster pulled his hand from my mouth, and I cried out.
“Paige?” My eyes pop open as Foster sits on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his gray suit. “Are you okay? You were crying in your sleep.”
My face heats, and I shrink away from him as I slide over.. My subconscious was working overtime as I dreamed of my husband raping me. Consciously, I know Foster didn’t have it in him to commit such a horrible act, and even thinking about it is embarrassing.
“I had a bad dream,” I stutter.
“It’s over now. I think you’re suffering from jetlag.”
I slide up and lean against the padded headboard. “Maybe.”
Foster smirks, motioning to my body. “Do you like my shirt?”
I look down at Foster’s shirt. “I was lonely.”
“I’m here now. Are you hungry?”
“I’m thirsty. Parched.”
“You should drink, it will make you feel better. Do you want to tell me about your dream?” he asks as he loosens his tie.
“I… no.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not important,” I dismiss.
