“So good,” I whispered. “I’m good. It’s good.”
He withdrew slowly. “Not hurting you?”
I watched in one angled mirror as his cock slid out of me, glistening and thick and dark. “Fucking perfect,” I growled, groaned. “Keep going.”
He paused in the instant before he would have fallen out of me, and then drove in. “Laurel…”
“Titus?”
He groaned, and leaned forward against me. I had to step forward, bent forward and braced my palms against the mirror. “You’re good? You can take it? Tell me you can take it.”
I arched my spine and drove my ass backward. “I can take it, Titus. I want it.”
He let out a rough groan of need. “You want it? You want this?” On the emphasized word, he plunged into me.
I screamed, so sensitive from the abundance of stimulation, the overwhelmed explosion of orgasms he’d given me turning me into a puddle of need. “Yes, yes, fucking yes,” I groaned, whimpered, whispered, “that, please, all of that. More of that. Give it to me. Fuck me.”
He pulled me upright, clutching at my breasts and dragging me roughly against him, his chest pasted to my back, his erection buried deep. I reached behind me and caught at his ass, and then he groaned. “You feel so good, Laurel. I don’t want to stop. But I can’t wait. I can’t stop it. I have to…” He withdrew, slowly, and pushed in. “I have to.”
“I want it,” I breathed. “Need it.”
I did. I was just speaking the truth. A million orgasms on his skilled tongue would never satisfy my need to come around him like this, to come with him inside me. That was what I needed. The orgasms on his tongue and fingers had only primed me for this, had only shown me my need for this, for him.
His knees bent, and he stood up thrust in. I screamed.
He dipped again, and lifted up. Thrust in. I screamed again.
Each thrust split me apart, made me ache, made me clench around him and shake, made my sex quake for more. And each time, he gave me more. Slow, hard, and deliberate.
I felt it stealing over me, felt a climax smashing open inside me, but this one was more, and I needed him to complete it.
“Titus…” I clawed at his buttocks as he drove up into me. “I need to come again.”
“So come,” he snarled.
“I can’t.” I dipped to meet his upward thrust, sinking on him as he lifted, feeling him pierce deep. “You have to. You come, so I can.”
He growled, and dipped again, and this time he began a rhythm. Fucked in, and now he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, wasn’t deliberate or rough or anything but taking his need in me.
“Fucking hell, Laurel,” he gasped, “what are you doing to me? Who the fuck are you? How can you feel this good?”
Harder, rougher. Holding me upright, preventing me from toppling forward with his big rough callused palms on my breasts, clutching and gripping and squeezing, pinching and rolling my nipples until I was breathless from the excessive stimulation, making me ache, making me shatter.
I touched myself.
I needed more.
He watched, and I watched—both of us watched as we moved together, as I touched myself to bring my orgasm to life, as he chased his own release inside me.
Harder, and harder.
God, the man’s rhythm was perfect. With each thrust, I swear got bigger, fit more tightly within me. Each thrust touched me perfectly, set off another series of dynamite explosions, made me quake and ache with exploding need, with drowning bliss, and it was all him, all Titus.
There’d never been anything like this.
Fuck, it was so good.
He was so good.
So fucking good.
Too good. But I’d worry about that later.
First, I wanted his orgasm. I wanted to feel him come, feel him let go.
He was driving up into me, now, hard and fast, pounding with rough crazed primal thrusts, taking me with every ounce of animal dominance. Harder, harder, and with each slapping union, I screamed and cried and begged for more, sank down and pushed back against him, urging him to take all of me, to take more of me.
And he did.
Again, and again, until the clap of joining bodies was loud between us, but not louder than his grunting utterances of my name, and mine of his.
I knew, in the back of my head, that this was crazy.
Sex this epic shouldn’t exist.
Yet it was happening, and to me, and with him, and this man behind me was bringing me to another orgasm, or the same one extended, and now finally he began to shake, began to gasp and rasp hoarse, began to slam his thrusts with shaky force rather than timed, rhythmed purpose.
And then, finally, fucking finally, I felt him give in, felt him let go.
“FUCK!” he roared. “Fuck…Laurel…”
He came, and he came, and his groans were mad, soft, wild, primal. He clutched at my breast with one hand and my throat with the other, gently holding my throat and tilting my head up and as he came apart behind me, inside me, he kissed me, as if to seal in the fraught insanity of it this with intimacy I knew neither of us was okay with.
I kissed him back even though the aching beauty of this moment was breaking something vital inside me, even though the kiss terrified me. I kissed him through it because I couldn’t do anything except kiss him.
He kissed me as he came, and he was as broken and breathless as I was, even though he trembled all around me with something more than the vigor and tremble of release. He shook with the intensity of us.
He throbbed within me and slammed deep one last time, and I felt him pulse, push deeper, or try to, since there was no deeper for him to go. Gripping my hips, now, he bent me away and I leaned forward for him and braced my palms against the cold mirror glass and his fingers dug hard into the flesh of my hips and ass and he drove into me with utter abandon, roughly jerking me backward into his ragged, slamming, fucking thrusts.
At long, long last, he ceased coming, and pulled away from me.
I ached with the absence of him.
My breasts bore the dark bruises of his fingerprints, as did my hips.
He stood behind me, chest rising and falling heavily. His tawny lion eyes drilled into mine, in the reflection. My nude reflection was that of a sex-sated nymph, sweat shining on my forehead and upper lip, dotting droplets dripping down my breasts, which lifted and swayed with my gasps.
His hair was tangled and messy. Mine was no better.
Silence.
What to say, then?
“You’re a fucking goddess,” he muttered.
And then he turned and walked away, and a moment later I heard the bathroom door close.
4
I spent a good minute or so gathering myself, scraping together what remained of my wits. I had to turn away from my reflection as I gathered my clothing off the floor, because to see myself naked in that mirror again would be to see him behind me, to feel that whole episode all over again, and that just simply wouldn’t do.
I stepped into my panties, fastened my bra at my belly and spun it around to enclose my breasts within the lacy cups, shrugged the straps on, adjusted the sit of them, and donned the rest of my clothing in record time. By the time I heard the master bathroom door open, I had my purse hanging from my elbow, my now hopelessly tangled hair bound back in a tight bun, and my sunglasses on.