Blondie

When the contractions slowed he pulled out.

The drag of his cock leaving her was a long slow theft — the ridge of the head catching at her rim on the way out, the wet sound of separation, and then the emptiness. The hollow of it hit her like a hand pulled away mid-touch — the sudden absence of something her body had already decided it needed — and she whimpered, thin and involuntary, the sound of a woman who’d just lost something she shouldn’t have wanted.

She lay there. Breathing. The ceiling was white and featureless and she stared at it while her pulse came down and her body hummed with the aftershock and the room was quiet except for his breathing and hers and the air conditioning and the creak of the mattress as his weight shifted.

Three seconds. Maybe four. The window opened.

She turned her head and caught herself in the dark glass of the hotel window across the room. The curtains were drawn but the gap between them showed a strip of black glass and in it: a woman. Ruined from the lace up. Mascara in two dark tracks. Lipstick where lipstick should not be. The white of the teddy — what was left of it — was the brightest thing in the reflection, and it looked like what it looked like. Something pristine that had been worn to be ruined. Something white that a man had put on a woman because the white was the point.

Her phone was on the floor by the armchair. The video on it. James in their bed three hours away with no idea that the ceiling had caved in an hour ago and the rubble was still settling. Saturday. The wine. The candles. The careful, patient, *tell me if it’s too much.* Gone. She’d given it away on a hotel bed in Ohio to a man James had told her to go to — and she’d come so hard she’d said his full name and meant it.

“God.” She said it to the ceiling. Not to Ray. The single syllable holding everything she couldn’t unpack right now — the guilt and the wonder and the grief and the wet throb between her legs that was already, already, asking for more. “What am I doing.”

“You know what you’re doing.” His voice from beside her. Not gentle. Not checking in. The flat certainty of a man who read rooms for a living and had read her face in the dark window the same way she had. He’d seen the clarity arrive. He’d seen the three-second window.

He was not going to give her a fourth second.

His hand found her hip. Gripped. Turned her onto her side — not asked, moved, the way he’d moved the whole room at the Ashford table. Her body followed because her body had stopped negotiating an hour ago. He fitted himself behind her — the broad warm wall of his chest against her back, the gut pressing into the curve of her spine, the coarse hair scraping her shoulder blades, and his cock slotting back between her cheeks. Slick. Hard. The head finding her opening with a precision that shouldn’t have been possible at his size.

“Ray, I just—”

He pushed in.

Her body opened around him on the first stroke. Easier. Trained now — trained by the last twenty minutes of him inside her, the muscle remembering, the resistance softened to acceptance. The full length slid home and settled deep and the sound she made was different from the first time. Lower. Darker. The sound of a woman who knew what was happening and had decided to let it happen again.

“Oh *fuck*.” Into the pillow. Her hand gripping the mattress edge. “That’s — you can’t just—”

“Just did.” His mouth at her ear. The arm that came across her waist was heavy and proprietary, his palm flat on her stomach, pulling her back against him so his cock bottomed out. She felt his balls against her ass. His chest hair damp on her skin. His heartbeat thumping against her back faster than it should have been for a man this composed.

“You’re a bastard.” She said it with no heat. Her hips were already rocking back against him, small involuntary pushes that took him deeper on every roll. “I was having a moment.”

“I know you were.” He pulled back — the slow drag, the tug at her rim — and drove in deep. She gasped. “Moment’s over.”

His hand slid from her stomach down between her thighs. His finger found her clit — swollen, hypersensitive from the orgasm, and the first touch made her jerk and grab his wrist.

“Too much—”

“No it isn’t.” He circled lighter. Reading her. Adjusting. The rough pad of his fingertip barely grazing the hood, and even that sent sparks through her thighs. “Breathe.”

“Stop telling me to breathe, I know how to—” He thrust and the sentence evaporated. Her grip on his wrist went from pushing-away to holding-there in the space of one stroke.

The angle from this side was different. She could feel the entire length of him on every drag — the head tracing a longer path through her, pressing new places, the curve of his shaft grinding against the thin wall between her ass and her pussy and sending shocks forward into her clit where his finger was waiting to catch them. Everything converging. His cock deep in her ass, his finger on her clit, his body wrapped around hers from behind. She was enclosed. Surrounded. The mass of him at her back and the heat of him inside her and nowhere to go except into the sensation.

“Squeeze me.” At her ear. Not asking.

She clenched around him. The grip made a wet sound and he hissed — the sharp intake through his teeth, half curse, half something helpless — and his arm tightened across her waist.

“Again. Harder.”

She squeezed harder and rocked her hips back and the combination hit something inside her that made her vision white out for a half-second and the sound she made was high and startled and his stroke faltered behind her.

“*Fuck.* Do that again.”

“Which part.” Breathless. Almost laughing. The absurdity of the sentence — *which part* — while Ray Vogler’s cock was buried in her ass for the second time in ten minutes.

“All of it.”

She did all of it. Squeeze. Rock. The wet grip of her ass on his cock and the roll of her hips driving him deep and his finger pressing her clit and the bed creaking under them in a slow heavy rhythm. His mouth found the side of her throat. Open. Wet. His teeth grazed the tendon and she tilted her head to give him more of it without thinking.

“You know what you feel like?” Low against her throat. His breath hot on the damp skin.

“Tell me.”

“Tighter than anything I’ve ever been in. Tighter than your pussy at the hotel. Tighter than that condom that blew apart inside you because your pussy was too wet and too greedy to let me fuck you through latex.”

“Shut *up*, Ray.” But she was clenching around him while she said it and the wet between her thighs was running down his finger and she could hear what her body sounded like — the slick rhythmic sound of his cock in her ass, the softer sound of his finger in her folds, the creak of the bed, her own breathing.

His hand left her clit. Came up. The thick palm settled at the column of her throat — not squeezing, not closing. Just there. Fingers loose around her neck, thumb finding her pulse. The weight of it. The implication arriving in her body before her brain could sort it — her breath going shallow, her pulse jumping under his thumb, a flush spreading down her chest that had nothing to do with the cock in her ass and everything to do with the hand on her throat and what it meant about what she wanted from this man.

“There it is.” He felt her pulse spike. His thumb pressed the artery lightly and the rush of blood in her ears was a new kind of heat. “There’s my girl.”

“I’m not your—”

Three long strokes. His hand warm on her throat. His cock deep in her ass. Each one rolling through her entire body — the drag and the push and the pressure at her neck and the weight of him behind her. On the third she clenched around him hard enough that his rhythm broke. His hips stuttered. His hand at her throat tightened one degree and released and the groan he made into her hair was the sound of a man whose control had been the last thing holding and the last thing was fraying.

He pressed deep on the next stroke. Held. His cock pulsing inside her, his breathing ragged at her ear, and she could feel it — the edge he’d swallowed down ten minutes ago climbing back up his spine. He was close. Closer than he wanted to be.

She reached back. Found his thigh. Dug her nails in.

“Don’t you dare come yet.” Her voice was raw and commanding and it was the first thing she’d said all night that sounded exactly like the woman who had walked into this room with rules. “I’m not done with you.”

---

He pulled her up.

Not a suggestion. His hands at her hips, lifting, turning — the efficient repositioning of a man who had decided what came next. Her body followed because following was what her body was doing now. Hands and knees. What was left of the white lace hung from her like something that had already given up. Her hair fell around her face and she could smell herself in it — sweat, sex, the musk of everything they’d been doing.

She was on all fours on a hotel bed for Ray Vogler. The thought arrived with the position, clear and specific: *I am on my hands and knees for a man who looks like he repairs vending machines and his cock has been in my ass for twenty minutes and I told him not to come yet.* The thought should have been sobering. The thought made her push her ass back toward him.

He fitted himself behind her. She felt his knees spread hers wider — the nudge of his thighs, insistent, opening her until the cool air of the room hit the wet mess between her legs and she could feel how exposed she was. Everything on display. Her ass, her pussy — swollen and slick and briefly untouched and aching — the stretched ring where he’d been, still open, still soft from the work his cock had done. She felt him looking. The weight of his gaze on her spread-open body as tangible as his hands.

He pressed back in.

The angle changed everything. Deeper. More direct. The head of his cock hit something on the first stroke that the other positions hadn’t reached and her fingers clawed the sheets and a sharp “*Oh—*” punched out of her before she could catch it. He bottomed out. His hips flush against her ass, his balls resting against her pussy — she could feel them there, heavy and warm against her swollen lips — and the fullness at this angle was staggering.

He held. His thumbs pressing into the flesh above her ass, spreading her, and she knew what he was looking at. His cock buried to the base in her ass, the pink rim of her stretched taut around the widest part of his shaft, glistening. Her ass — her ass that stopped men in hallways, that James cupped in his sleep, that she’d caught Ray staring at across conference tables for three years — wrapped around his cock from behind like it had been waiting for him.

Then he started to fuck her.

Long strokes. The full length of him pulling almost out — the drag of the head catching at her rim, the wet sucking sound of her body trying to hold him — and driving back in to the base. Slow enough that she felt every inch on the way out and every inch on the way back and the sounds they were making filled the room: the slick drag of his cock through her, the heavy wet *smack* of his belly meeting her cheeks on every push, the creak of the bed finding a rhythm, and underneath all of it the small punched-out *uh* she made at the depth of every stroke that she could not stop making no matter how hard she bit the inside of her cheek.

Her tits swung free below the bunched lace. Bare, heavy, her nipples hard and dark, swaying under her on every thrust. The deepest strokes swung them forward far enough that her nipples dragged against the duvet and the scrape of fabric on the oversensitive tips made her whimper and arch her back and the arch changed the angle and his cock went deeper and she moaned loud enough to hear herself through the pillow.

“You have *no* idea—” She was talking into the sheets, her voice muffled, her hips pushing back to meet him on every stroke. “—what this feels like from this side.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s so deep I can feel you in my *stomach*, Ray, I can feel—” He drove in hard and the sentence crumbled. “*Ah—* I can feel every — *fuck* — every time you push in, something inside me—”

“Something inside you what.”

“*Moves.* Something moves and I can’t — I’ve never—” Another stroke. Her arms shook. “I’ve never felt anything this deep in my life and it’s in my *ass*, Ray, you’re in my ass and it’s—”

“Say it.”

“It’s so *good.*” The confession falling out of her in a voice that was almost crying, almost laughing. “It’s so good and it shouldn’t be, it should hurt, it should feel wrong, and instead I’m—” He bottomed out and held and her back arched and she pressed her face into the sheets and finished the sentence into the cotton: “—I’m losing my fucking mind.”

His hand pressed warm at the small of her back. Then his weight came down along her body — chest to her shoulders, the gut against her lower back, the heat of him blanketing her completely. She was pinned. His mass covered her from shoulder to thigh and the weight pushed her flat onto the mattress, her tits crushed against the sheets, her hips pressed down, and his cock sank the last fraction deeper and the helpless sound she made was pre-verbal. She was very small underneath him. He was everywhere.

His mouth found her shoulder blade. Open. Wet. His hips kept grinding — short, tight, deep strokes that didn’t pull back far, just pushed and pushed and pushed — and she could feel every flex of his belly against her back, every rough exhale against her skin.

“You know what the best part of all this is?”

“Don’t, Ray—”

“Hm?”

“Whatever you’re about to say—”

“You remember what I told that room in Dallas?”

Every muscle in her body went still.

“Three years ago.” His mouth wet on her spine. His hips grinding slow. “The meeting that cost me a lot. You remember what I said about this ass?”

“Ray, don’t—”

“I said it was wasted. On one man. On careful and patient and *one slow inch at a time.*” A long slow stroke that pulled a moan out of her she couldn’t suppress. “And here you are — face in the mattress, my cock as deep as it goes, pushing your hips back for more. So tell me, Jenna.” Another stroke. Deeper. “Was I wrong?”

“*Shut up.*”

“Was I wrong?”

“You’re a *pig*, Ray, you’re a disgusting—” He ground in deep and her voice broke into a moan that gutted the insult. Her hips lifted against his. Her pussy was clenching on nothing, the arousal running down the inside of her thigh, and the wet sound of his cock in her ass was obscene and rhythmic and she could hear what she sounded like — like a woman getting exactly what she wanted from exactly the wrong man.

“That’s what I thought.” She felt him grin against her shoulder blade — the shape of his mouth spreading, the satisfaction settling into his skin. The grin of a man cashing a bet he’d been carrying since the first hour he saw her walk into a room.

“You’re the *worst.*”

“I’m in your ass, Blondie. Deep in your perfect, gorgeous, *extraordinary* ass.” A slow grind. “Hard to be the worst from here.”

She made a sound that was half laugh, half groan, and it dissolved on the next stroke into something she couldn’t categorize.

His hand slid under her. Found her clit. The pad of his finger slick with the arousal that had been running out of her for the last half hour, and the first circle pulled a jolt through her that made her bite the sheet. Her clit was swollen, hypersensitive from the orgasm, and the touch was almost too much — almost, not quite, the line where overwhelming tipped into unbearable and she lived on that line while his cock kept the steady deep drive from behind and his finger kept the circles at the front and her body clenched and pulsed between the two points of contact.

Her arms gave. Her face went into the duvet. Her ass stayed up because his hand at her hip held it there. She was folded — face down, ass up, the oldest position, the crudest, and Ray Vogler’s cock was filling her from behind while his finger worked her clit and her moans were muffled in the sheets and she had never in her life been fucked like this. Not at the hotel. Not on the couch. Never.

He slapped her ass.

Sharp. Open-palmed. The *crack* startled a yelp out of her that she felt in her teeth and her hips jerked forward into his finger and the jolt ran straight from the sting on her cheek through her clit to the base of her spine. The sting bloomed warm. Spread. Pulsed.

“*Ah*— what—”

His cock didn’t stop. His finger didn’t stop. The slap was a new instrument in the same song.

“What’s your name?”

“*Jenna.*” Automatic. Voice muffled. The reflex polished over fourteen months of refusing him the other word.

He slapped again. Harder. The sound sharper. The warm sting layering on top of the first. Her ass cheek was burning and her pussy was flooding and the combination was doing something to her wiring that she didn’t have time to examine.

“Try again. What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer. His cock moved in her — slow now, every stroke deliberate, every inch an announcement — and his finger kept circling her clit with the pressure he’d learned from the last one, and she was shaking, and the orgasm was right there, and the word was right there too, sitting in her mouth the way his cock sat in her body — something that had been pushed in from outside and was now impossible to expel.

“Look at you.” His mouth at her shoulder. “Face down. Ass up. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

He slapped a third time. The sound filled the room. Her cheek was burning. Her cunt was gripping on nothing and the arousal was soaking his hand and the orgasm was one circle of his thumb away and the word was—

“Blondie.” Barely a whisper into the duvet.

She heard herself say it and something unknotted in her chest and something else tightened, and the feeling was vertigo — the specific vertigo of handing a man a thing he’d been asking for since the first day he saw her and having the handing-over feel like relief instead of loss. Every clipped *my name is Jenna.* Every cold rebuff. Every meeting where she’d refused him the syllable. Ending here. In this position. With his cock deep in her ass and her face in a hotel pillow and her hips pushing back for more.

“Again.” *Slap*

“Blondie.” Louder. Clear. Her voice not broken now — steady, almost defiant, the sound of a woman making a choice she could feel all the way down.

“Whose ass is this.”

“*Yours.*” No hesitation.

“Whose ass is this, Blondie.”

The moan and the word came out at the same time, loud enough that her own voice startled her and the wall between this room and the next was not thick enough: “*Yours*, Ray — *yours—*”

“*Good* girl.”

She came.

It hit on the next stroke — his cock buried to the base and his finger pressing her clit and the sting of his palm still hot on her cheek — and the orgasm ripped through her in waves that stacked on top of each other. Her ass clamped down around him in hard rhythmic pulses. Her arms went out entirely. Her face ground into the duvet and the sound she made was long and muffled and raw, the kind of sound that comes from the floor of a woman’s body, from the place below pride and below language and below the name she goes by in conference rooms — and under it, barely a whisper into the duvet, *no pares, no pares.*.

His hands clamped on her hipbones. Bruising. He stopped moving. He held her there — her ass pulsing on his cock, milking him in waves she couldn’t control, her body clenching and releasing and clenching around the full thick length of him — and his jaw locked and the cords in his neck stood out and for the second time in five minutes he was right at the edge and the edge was trying to swallow him.

“*Christ.*” Through his teeth. His cock swelling inside her on one thick pulse. “*Fuck* — Christ, baby—”

He breathed through it. Forced it down. Held her on him while her body finished and the contractions slowed and the wet sounds between them softened. His hands on her hips were shaking. His chest heaving against her back. The restraint was costing him everything he had and she could feel the cost in the tremor of his thighs, the white of his knuckles, the clenched-shut silence of a man refusing to let go.

He pulled out slowly. The loss of him was physical — the fullness collapsing inch by inch, the cool air finding the places he’d been — and the whimper it pulled out of her was something she didn’t try to hide. Her whole body contracted around the absence.

---

He sat back on his heels and pulled her up.

She came off the mattress boneless — arms useless, hair plastered to her neck with sweat, the teddy hanging off one shoulder. He moved up the bed, settled against the headboard, spread his thighs. Drew her back into his lap facing away. She went where he put her. Her body had stopped having opinions about where it went.

Her back against his chest. The warm bulk of him behind her. His gut pressing her lower back, his chest hair rough against her shoulder blades, his cock — still hard, impossibly still hard, slick and hot — resting in the cleft of her ass. She could feel it twitch against her. She could feel the pre-come smearing on her skin.

She reached down between them without being asked. Her hand found his shaft — the fingers not closing, never closing, the width of him a fact her hand would never solve — and she guided the head to her rim. She was open. Soft. The resistance that had been there an hour ago was gone. Her body knew him now. She settled the head at her opening and sank.

Quarter-inch at a time. Slow. Her own weight doing the work — gravity and the slick mess between them pulling her down onto him, his hands at her hipbones steadying her but not pushing. She took him inch by inch and felt every one — the head spreading her wide, the shaft following, the stretch no longer startling but deep and specific and *good*, the good she hadn’t expected and couldn’t deny, the good that had made her say *I’m losing my fucking mind* into a hotel pillow ten minutes ago.

When her ass met his lap and the full length of him was seated inside her she stopped. Held. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder. The sound that came out of her was low and surrendered — not the sharp *ah* of the first entry but a long slow *ohh* that she felt in her ribs. She was full. She was sitting in Ray Vogler’s lap with his cock buried in her ass and her feet planted on either side of his hips and the wet of her arousal was soaking his thighs and she had put herself here. Her own hand. Her own weight.

“Take it.” His voice at her ear. Cracked. Wrecked. “However you want.”

She started to roll her hips.

Small circles at first. Grinding down on him, the shaft shifting inside her in tight rotations, the angle deeper than any of the others because her own weight pressed her onto him and gravity was doing what his hips had been doing from the other positions. Every roll pushed him against something deep and she gasped on each one — small bright sounds, *ah, ah, ah*, her mouth open, her eyes half-closed.

She found it. The rhythm. Long slow rolls, each one grinding her down on the full length of him, each one pressing the head against the deep spot that made her thighs shake. She was riding him. In his lap, her back to his chest, her ass full of his cock, and she was *riding* him — setting the pace, choosing the depth, her hips doing exactly what they wanted while his hands rested at her waist and let her work.

She reached back. Her hand found his belly — the soft heavy give of it, the coarse hair, the warm damp skin — and she pressed her palm flat and used it. Leverage. She pushed herself up an inch and dropped — the wet *smack* of her ass on his thighs filling the room, her moan chasing the sound. She did it again. And again. Controlled, deliberate, her small hand braced on his gut while she fucked herself down onto him, the slap of her ass on his lap getting louder and wetter and the sounds coming out of both of them getting less and less composed.

She caught the reflection in the dark window.

The gap in the curtains. The strip of black glass. And in it: her. A small golden woman in shredded white lace riding a large, flushed, ugly man propped against a headboard. Her back arched against his chest. Her tits bare and bouncing with every drop of her hips. Her hand braced on his hairy belly. Her mouth open. And below — visible in the glass, just — the dark thick shaft of his cock appearing and disappearing between her spread thighs as she rose and fell on him. She looked like something from a video she would have closed immediately if she’d found it on the internet. She looked extraordinary.

Somewhere in the last minute his hips had started driving up to meet hers — thick hard thrusts from below that slammed her down onto the full length of him, his cock punching deeper on every upstroke, the wet slap of his belly against her ass loud enough to hear through the wall. She’d felt his grip crush her waist, his breathing go ragged at her ear. Both of them fucking each other now.

His pace broke.

She felt it — his cock jumping inside her, a low broken *fuck* hissed into her hair, his fingers digging into her waist. She stopped moving. Held still on him, the full length of him sealed inside her, and she could feel his cock pulsing against her inner walls in thick desperate throbs.

“Wait—” Through his teeth. His head dropped against her shoulder. “Wait — *Christ* — give me a—”

He couldn’t finish yet. She could feel his whole body straining underneath her — the tremor in his thighs, the clench of his stomach against her back, the white-knuckle grip on her waist. He was right at the edge. One more roll of her hips and he would come inside her ass and the effort of not doing it was shaking him apart.

She turned her head on his shoulder. Looked at his face. Eyes squeezed shut. Cords standing in his neck. Sweat running from his temple. Jaw clamped. The man who engineered rooms and leveraged hours and moved people like inventory — undone by the clench of her body on his cock. She had done that. She was *doing* that, right now, by sitting still.

She watched him in the window. Their reflection. His arms around her waist. Her body on his. Both of them flushed and gleaming and spent.

She rolled her hips. One slow deliberate circle.

“*Jesus*—” His grip crushed. “You’re going to make me—”

“*Shh.*” She rolled again. Smaller. Tighter. The corner of her mouth turned up — the first real smile since the bathroom mirror, the smile of a woman who had found the one piece of power left in the room and was using it. “*Breathe,* Ray.”

His own word. Thrown back at him. She felt his chest seize behind her with something that was either a laugh or a sob.

She rode him slow. Watching their reflection in the glass — the small controlled rolls of her hips, his face at her shoulder contorting, his hands on her waist trembling. She leaned forward an inch and the angle changed and the sound he made was long and broken and she felt his cock swell inside her and held the angle and made him live in it.

She reached behind her for his hand.

Not to stop him. Not to guide him. She laced her fingers between his thick rough ones and pulled his hand up off her waist and pressed it flat against her chest, over her sternum, over the bone above her heart. His palm covered her from collarbone to the swell of her breast. He let her hold it there. His thumb moved once across her knuckles. She squeezed. He squeezed back. And they held hands while she fucked herself on his cock and neither of them acknowledged it and the tenderness of the gesture inside the crudeness of the act was the most confusing thing that had happened all night.

His free hand slid down between her legs. Found her clit.

She was drenched. His finger slid through the wet and found the swollen nub and the first circle pulled her hips off the mattress and a moan out of her that was almost a scream. Two orgasms in and her clit was raw, oversensitive, every touch a jolt that sat right on the line between pleasure and too much. His finger circled lighter. Found the pressure. She sank back down on him and the two sensations — his cock deep in her ass, his finger on her clit — stacked on top of each other and her body couldn’t decide which one to chase so it chased both.

“Ray—”

---

She lifted off him.

The slow withdrawal made them both groan — and the sound he made when the head slipped free was something she’d never heard from a man. Guttural. Bereft. The sound of losing something he’d been holding inside for three hours of patience and planning and the careful disassembly of a woman’s resistance.

She turned on his lap.

Swung her leg over. Faced him. Her thighs settling across his hips, her hands finding his shoulders, her face inches from his. His face was destroyed — sweat running from his temples, the flush spreading from his cheeks down his neck to his chest, his mouth swollen from her teeth. She looked at him. This man. This crude, heavy, pockmarked, sweating man. She was about to put his cock back in her ass herself and finish him.

She reached between them. Wrapped her hand around his shaft — slick with her, slick with the mess of the last hour, and the wet sound of her fist on him was loud between their bodies. She lifted her hips. Guided the head to her rim. Pressed down.

The entry was easy. Her body opened around him like a hand closing around something familiar and the full length slid home in one slow continuous sink — her weight pulling her down onto him, her ass swallowing his cock inch by inch while she watched his face and his eyes went glassy and his mouth fell open and his hands found her hips and gripped.

She stopped at the base. The full length sealed inside her. Her ass flush against his thighs. His cock pulsing deep in a place she’d been a virgin two hours ago and would never be a virgin again.

She heard herself think it: *I’m about to make Ray Vogler come inside my ass.*

The thought should have been the thing that stopped her. It was the thing that made her roll her hips.

She kissed him. Wet. Open. Her tongue in his mouth while she moved on him — long slow rolls, chest to chest, the ruined teddy crushed between them, her tits dragging against his chest hair, his belly warm and heavy against her stomach. His arms came around her and she was inside the circle of a man twice her size and her hips kept working and his pulse was hammering in his throat under her thumb.

“Fuck me.” Against his mouth. No pretense left. The voice that had said *your ten minutes start now* in a doorframe two hours ago now saying this. “Fuck me with that cock, Ray.”

He started to move under her. His hips lifting into hers on every roll, meeting her on the way down, and the depth he reached when they both drove at the same time was obscene — deeper than the doggy, deeper than the side, the angle pushing him past where she’d thought her body ended. She gasped against his teeth and her gasp turned into a laugh — small, breathless, incredulous.

“How is it *deeper* from here—”

“Your weight.” Rough. Into her mouth. “You’re sitting on it. All of it.”

“All of it.” She rolled down. Took him to the base. Held. “I can feel you in my *chest*, Ray.”

“You wanted this.”

“I want it *now*.” Her hips drove down. Hard. The slap of her ass on his thighs cracked through the room. “I want it right now. Don’t stop.”

She bit his lower lip. Pulled. He growled into her mouth and his hands moved from her hips to her ass — both palms gripping, spreading her cheeks around his shaft, and the feeling of his huge hands opening her wider while she rode him made her moan into his mouth and grind down harder.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair at the nape and pulled. Her head tipped back. Throat bare. He kept fucking up into her and his mouth found her pulse point and she could feel his teeth against the tendon and the scrape of his stubble on the soft skin and his cock driving into her from below.

She heard herself. The sounds she was making — wet, rhythmic, a *uh uh uh* on every downstroke that she couldn’t shape into words — were the sounds of a woman getting fucked in the ass and loving it. She could hear the slap of her body on his, the wet suck of his cock in her, the creak of the headboard, and her own voice threaded through all of it like something feral she’d let out of a cage. This was her. This was Jenna Whitfield. Married. Thirty-three. Against the man whose cock was currently buried in the place her husband had spent three weeks lovingly preparing for a Saturday night that would never happen now, and she was riding him and begging for more and the woman making those sounds was the same woman who had stood in a bathroom mirror an hour ago in white lace looking like something sacred.

Nothing sacred left.

“Cum in me.” She said it against his mouth and heard it leave her and the hearing was its own shock — the crudeness of it, the finality. She didn’t take it back. “Cum in my ass, Ray.”

“*Fuck*—” His hips jerked under her. His grip on her ass tightened.

“I want to feel it.” She drove down. Rolled. Her forehead against his, her eyes open, looking at him while she said it. “I want to feel you cum inside me. Deep. Fill me up.”

“Jenna—”

“I’ve been thinking about this.” True. She hadn’t known it was true until she said it but her body had known for weeks — the plugs, the training, the graduated patience, and underneath all of it the question she’d never let herself ask: *what would his cock feel like there?* “I’ve been thinking about you cumming in my ass since the first night James put the plug in me.”

The sound he made was ruined. His hips lost their rhythm. His hands on her ass were shaking.

“Give it to me.” She rode him harder. Her ass slapping against his thighs in fast wet smacks, her tits bouncing against his chest, her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage, the headboard knocking the wall. “I’m not leaving this room until I feel you cum, Ray. In my ass. Where my husband was supposed to be first. *Give it to me.*”

He swelled inside her.

She felt it — the shaft thickening, the pulse intensifying, the head stretching her wider from inside, his entire body going rigid underneath her. His grip on her hips was past bruising. His next thrust was desperate — graceless, the coordination gone, just the raw upward drive of a man whose body had overruled his brain. The one after that broke his rhythm completely and he was gone.

“*Jenna—*”

Her real name. From a place in him she hadn’t known existed. Not Blondie. Not baby. *Jenna.* Groaned against her mouth like a prayer in a language he’d forgotten he spoke.

“*Jenna — I’m — fuck — Jenna—*”

Her hand found her clit. She hadn’t decided to reach — the hand went on its own, two fingers sliding through the slick mess between her thighs, and the first circle buckled her spine. She was already there. Had been there for twenty minutes, the orgasm sitting right at the surface, and Ray groaning her name into her mouth was all it took.

Two circles. Three. She came.

Her ass clamped around his cock in hard desperate pulses — her hips grinding down, fingers still working her clit through the aftershocks, her whole body wringing him in waves she couldn’t stop. She was moaning into his mouth, raw and wrecked, and the words spilling out of her weren’t English.

“*Raymundo* — *sí, sí* —”

The name hit him like a fist. She felt his whole body seize under her, the last thread snap, her orgasm milking his cock the thing that tipped him over. He was coming inside her.

She did not stop. She rode him through it — drove her hips down on every pulse, taking each spurt of him deep in her ass, her body clenching around him on every wave, milking him with the slow hungry grind she’d learned in the last hour. She felt the heat spread inside her. Thick. Heavy. Each pulse landing deep and pooling where no man had ever been. His cum filling her ass in warm surges while his hands crushed her hips and his mouth fell open against hers and the sound coming out of him was long and broken and guttural, climbing from his chest and cracking at the peak into something she would remember for the rest of her life.

She held him inside her. Rode him through every spurt. Her hand at the back of his neck pulling his face into the hollow of her throat. His open mouth wet and gasping against her skin. She could feel him emptying — pulse after pulse, thick and warm, flooding the deepest part of her — and her ass kept gripping him through it, clenching in slow rhythmic waves that were the tail end of her own orgasm, her body wringing him dry because her body had decided this was hers to take.

When the pulses slowed she didn’t stop. She rode him slow — long deep grinding rolls that pulled the last weak pumps out of him, her hips moving with a patience she’d learned from watching him. Draining him. His grip on her hips went slack by degrees. His groans softened into small helpless sounds against her throat — spent, almost tender, the noises of a man who had nothing left. She didn’t stop until the throb of his cock inside her slowed and the heat stopped coming and she felt him begin to soften.

She settled at the bottom of a long deep roll. Stayed. He was still inside her — smaller now, spent, the warmth of what he’d given her already beginning a slow thick trickle out of her that she could feel running down to where their bodies met. She didn’t move. Her arms went around his neck. His forehead came down against her collarbone. His breath shuddered against her chest.

“*Christ.*” Into her skin. Barely a sound.

She kissed the top of his head. The thinning grey hair. The hot damp scalp. He made a sound against her chest that she would never tell anyone about — small, helpless, the sound of a man set down somewhere he hadn’t expected to land. She kissed his temple. The sweat there. Then he tilted his face up and she met his mouth and the kiss was slow and exhausted and tasted like both of them and the room they’d made together.

The bed settled. The headboard stopped knocking. The room was quiet except for their breathing finding the same tempo.
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