Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
She’d quoted Oliver Twist while getting fucked.
Truly, the woman was one of a kind.
Knowing it was idiotic, and dangerous, and deranged, I pushed my tip through her slit. She was tight—tighter, still, through the tattered, stretched cotton of her ruined panties—but wet and sleek, ready for what was coming.
The sensation, how warm and taut she felt, completely undid me. I thrust harder and deeper, entering her through our underwear, fucking her slowly with only flimsy fabric between us.
I tore my mouth from hers, eyes glued to my cock each time it sank into her. I could barely fit inside, she was so tight.
This was, by far, the best fuck I’d ever had.
She panted. “Is this what people call dry-humping?”
No.
Nothing about this was dry. I was basically fucking her through our underwear.
Only, explaining to her that this was full-blown sex with a side order of my issues was not in my plans for tonight. Or ever.
“Sure.”
Each push brought me closer to a climax.
From slow, controlled, teasing thrusts designed to drive her mad with desire, I quickly derailed to jerky, manic, need-to-be-inside-this-woman plunges. Of a man so hungry for human connection, for affection, for carnal needs to be met and satisfied.
My head grew dizzy. I’d taken into consideration the possibility that Dallas couldn’t come through penetration. It merely placed her in the same majority as most females on Planet Earth.
But she shook, clawed, and reached for me, looking ready to climax. Her tits bounced and jiggled each time I slammed into her.
Her mouth opened in awe, probably because this orgasm felt different from the first two. Deeper and more violent.
She clutched the lapels of my shirt, shoving her face in mine. “Lose the underwear.” She met my thrust, groaning when my crown peeked past the slot in my boxer briefs. “I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you.”
I was about two seconds from fulfilling her demand. Luckily, my logic grabbed the steering wheel, which my cock had seized sometime this evening, and derailed the situation from full-blown calamity.
I managed to wait until she came, just barely, before pulling out, flipping her onto her stomach, and jerking off.
I aimed for her bare ass but somehow came on her hair. No matter. She had plenty of time to wash it. Her agenda wasn’t exactly full.
Dallas fell back onto the pillows, a lopsided grin on her face.
“It’s official.” She pulled me down with her and peppered my face with wet, sloppy kisses, reminding me, yet again, that the difference between her and a puppy was indeed negligible. “Having sex is my new favorite sport.”
“Sex is not a sport.”
“It should be. I would do it all day long if that were a thing.”
“It is. It’s called prostitution.”
I fell on top of her with complete disregard to her slight weight, reached for the nightstand, and shoved two mint gums into my mouth.
“There won’t be another time.” I rolled off her, my body sleek with sweat, my muscles calm for the first time in years.
“Sure, honey.” She plastered her tits to my arm. Beneath us, the sheets were soaked with everything we’d just done. “Just this once.”
But the temptation proved too much.
I ended up granting myself a free pass for the duration of our honeymoon. For an entire week, I fucked Dallas through her clothes at every opportunity.
And every night, I fucked her through a bedsheet, careful to always come on her face, tongue, and tits. I almost even fucked her bareback in the Louvre.
Then I ate her sweet little cunt at La Madeleine. A church of all places, because my troublemaker of a wife simply could not wait until we returned to the hotel.
She’d even begged me to finger her on the Dodo Manège. Which meant I also had to suck her tits under a coat I draped over her chest in the taxi back to the hotel.
The pattern was depressingly clear.
I married a woman with nymphomaniac tendencies and had zero desire to deprive her of what she wanted.
I was pussy-whipped. So pussy-whipped, I forgot to ask, to expect, to train her to return the favor.
I was so enamored with her cunt that I forgot it was a Venus flytrap, hungry for my sperm.
One thing was certain.
When we returned to U.S. soil, I needed to stay as far away from my wife as I possibly could. Being in close quarters with her would put me at a clear disadvantage in our psychological war.
It would take her a month. Two. Perhaps even an entire year. But I knew in my bones that she’d convince me to fuck her bareback. Filthy.
Until she filled to the brim with my cum.
Whatever Dallas Costa wanted—Dallas Costa got.
And what she wanted right now was my heir.
Romeo’s penis could cure depression.
Unfortunately, it could not cure hatred.
I still had that in spades.