Page 13 of The Man I Hate

“This is nothing more than the two of us having fun,” I said. “Stop talking and fuck me.”

“Just remember.” He withdrew himself until the tip of his dick was tickling my pussy lips. “You asked for this.”

After that low-level warning, he fucked me as if his continued existence depended on it.

I’d had men make sweet love to me before, and I’d undoubtedly been fucked a few times. I had never, however, been fucked like Braxton was fucking me. His savage thrusts lifted me with such force that my head hit the car’s headliner.

Each inward stroke forced the tip of dick into the soft flesh of my cervix. The subsequent jolts of euphoria that rushed through me took with them my ability to refrain from reaching climax prematurely.

The clapping sound of his hips slapping against the back of my thighs filled the car’s interior. A few unplanned high-pitched squeals on my part followed, as did the occasional Oh. My. God.

His cologne, my perfume, and the sweet musk of sex melded together.

I had every intention of leaving a lasting impression. In fact, fucking him until he couldn’t walk was my plan of action. However, a matter of minutes into our impromptu parking lot romp, and I was scratching the headliner of his two-hundred-thousand-dollar SUV with the tips of my thirty-dollar nails.

I draped my arms over his shoulders. On the verge of a sexual meltdown, I sank my fingertips into the flesh of his muscular back.

“Ohmygod,” I exclaimed. “I’m…”

Before I finished my thought, my pussy tightened around his shaft. The next few strokes sent me into the sexual stratosphere. As I reached the pinnacle of climactic bliss, he continued to pound away.

An orgasm rushed through me like a tsunami overtaking a Japanese beach.

I let out a blood-curdling wail.

Overcome by the sudden surge of emotion, I blacked out momentarily. When I returned to a half-conscious state, my mind was a jumbled mess of mental jelly. He had officially fucked me senseless.

Mindless, I crawled off his lap. Sitting in my seat with shaking legs, I stared blankly at the sunshade. I raked my fingers through my hair and offered him an apologetic look. “That. Felt. Amazing.”

He glanced at his lap.

I did the same.

Twitching with desire, his cock pointed at the heavens above. Before I could offer a helping hand, he peeled the condom away and began stroking himself with his right hand.

I’d never witnessed a man pleasuring himself. In awe of the sight, I watched with eager eyes. A few joyous moments and several tight-fisted strokes later, he ejaculated into the palm of his cupped left hand.

Repeatedly.

Flushed with a pang of odd sexual guilt for witnessing the act, I glanced at his face. Hoping for some type of confirmation that it was okay for me to have watched so enthusiastically, I waited for him to meet my gaze with approving eyes.

“Would you mind handing me a wipe?” he asked. “They’re in the glove box.”

Wondering if jacking off inside the car was a common occurrence, I opened the glove box. A package of leather interior wipes were all that was available.

I lifted the package. “One of these?”

“It’s all I’ve got,” he replied. “I keep them to wipe off the seats after my greasy-haired coworker gets out.”

I handed him one. I glanced at the puddle of cum in the palm of his hand. It was a three-wipe operation.

I handed him two more. “Oh.”

He cleaned up the mess and situated his slacks. After buckling his seatbelt, he looked at me and smirked. “Do you want some help with yours, or do you think you’ll be alright?”

I mentally shot him a glare. Without looking, I retrieved the belt and buckled it. “I’m good.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “You sure are.”