Page 20
Before I can even consider how much more room, he could possibly want – or need – Hogan purrs, “Put your foot on my thigh, baby.” His sopping wet middle digit delivers a teasing dip near my entrance. “I wanna make sure you can see my work.”
Reluctance to free my foot from my sandal is non-existent.
And so is bracing my sole against his jean covered thigh.
The action itself is enough to get whatever part of my skirt that’s in the way elsewhere; however, he still demands more.
“Move that shit out of my way.”
My fingers relinquish their hold on his shirt do what they’ve been told to my attire.
“That’s more like it,” Hogan praises against my lips prior to stealing another nip. “Perfect fucking view.”
Do I feel that way?
No.
I can see my stretchmarks and the tiny set of moles that are on my thigh like an unconnected constellation and the random missed hairs when I last shaved my legs – which wasn’t recent enough to be on display like I’m an exhibit in the Library of Congress – yet none of that matters the second he sinks a finger deep inside.
Arching into the action is instantaneous right along with squeezing my eyes shut.
Attempting to collect a breath.
Additional grumbles occur as he gently removes his fingers just enough to add a second.
To shove them both back inside.
To send my ass levitating off the cold seat and into his grasp that gets rough.
More forceful.
One thrust becomes two and two transposes into three and three becomes six steady pumps, all piling on top of the last, leaving no room for reprieve.
No chance to stop choking on my own airy moans.
The heel of his hand presses itself against my clit adding delicious pressure, causing my foot to flex against his leg. Pride filled grumbles are buried into my hair as he proceeds to slam his open palm into my pussy, creating a luscious, lecherous slapping, pounding combo that stretches my underworked lower lips to the point they’re screaming.
That I’m screaming.
That I’m panting and rocking and clawing with my toes for leverage.
“You hear that?” Wet, sloppy sounds reverberate around the small room, drenched muscles drowning his digits even more. “Such a pretty fucking sound, teach.” Slick skin unrelentingly crashing into slicker skin, smearing and coating everything it touches, suddenly becomes the soundtrack song my sex life needs to have on repeat. “You’re gonna come for me,” Hogan insists around swipes at my tongue that’s cartoonishly hanging out of my mouth. “You’re gonna come harder than you’ve ever fuckin’ come before.”
If he keeps ceaselessly pumping and frantically stroking my little nub on every smash and grunting while thrusting like it’s his cock instead of two – fuckme now three – fingers, he’s absolutely right.
I am gonna come.
And keep coming.
And quite possibly not stop coming until I pass out from lack of oxygen or pure pleasure.
Perhaps both?
Both seems like the most likely scenario.
“You’re gonna come for me and only me,” Hogan murmurs against my mouth, his own breathing erratic. “Me and no one else.” The increasingly unsteady pacing of his hammering has my neck straining to stretch in his hold as well as my dripping wet muscles beginning to throb in warning. “You’re mine now, Emaline.” Quivers savagely tear through the burning of my bucking hips. “All. Mine.”
Again.
