“Wall-fucking is great, but I’ve got a mind to spread you out on the couch by the window. I’ve wanted to fuck you so the neighbors can see.”
The shutters are open, and a spring breeze wafts in, the curtains fluttering. “Your neighbors are Peeping Toms?”
I set her down on the gray couch by the window. “Joy, it’s Paris. We are all voyeurs here.”
She shivers and runs her hand between her breasts. “Then let’s give them something to see.”
I groan as I watch her touch her belly now. “Including me,” I rasp out. “I’d like to watch you fuck yourself sometime.”
Her eyes darken with lust as her hand slides between her legs. I tear open the condom wrapper as her eyes drift away from me, like she’s giving me a private audience into her personal fantasy. Her knees fall open as she touches herself. My chest burns, and my body heats to record temperatures. She’s the most sensual woman I’ve ever seen, ever known. I want to just stare at her, to watch her as she pleasures herself.
But I know she wants more. I want more. I roll the condom on and kneel on the sofa, tugging her down the cushions, spreading her out, opening her legs.
Then I stop. I slap a palm to my forehead. “What was I thinking? No one can see us like this.”
Quickly, I switch us around, so I’m seated on the couch, and she’s on my lap. I tip my forehead to the open window. The view’s not much, but at least it’s a perfect sightline across the courtyard and into the other flats.
“Is this better for you?” she teases, glancing toward the window.
“It’s better for everyone. But it’d be better for me if you could get on my dick right now.”
She sucks in a breath as she adjusts her position, straddling me and staring at my erection with rapt attention and glossy eyes. Grabbing the base, I rub the head of my cock against her slickness. She leans her head back and moans, a dirty, gorgeous note, like sex and music all at once.
I moan, too, then I curse when she sinks down on me, taking me all the way. With her hands on my chest, she works to find her rhythm. Rising up, grinding down, swiveling her hips.
Watching her is pure eroticism. It’s like she knows every inch of her body. Knows what she wants. Knows how to find it. And knows how to use me to get there. With a sway of her hips, a grind of her pelvis, she moves on me in a sensual dance. Up and down, and she stays there for a moment, sitting on my cock, sucking in her breath.
Raising my hips, I thrust up into her. So wet, so hot, so perfect.
She moans my name, wraps her arms around my neck. “Don’t be gentle with me.”
Her dirty mouth sends a charge down my spine. It ratchets up the lust rattling through my bones. “I won’t.”
I grab her hips, dig my fingers in, and move her on me. I adjust my left hand so my thumb glides across her clit, and she gasps. Every sound she makes sends a bolt of desire through my body. I’m burning everywhere, heat flaring over my skin as we fuck by the window. Her mouth falls open. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her hair slides down her back. And her tits bounce magnificently.
Majestically.
This is the snapshot of everything I want right now. To have her like this and to be used by her for pleasure.
This woman I’ve spent my days with. Spent my evenings with. Spent all my words on. This woman I want so much more of. White-hot pleasure blasts through me as our bodies grind and thrust. She clutches my shoulders, digging into my neck as I push up. She stares down at us, at the way she rides my cock, how she slides up and down on me. She trembles at the same time as she moans. Loud and dirty and hungry. “Harder.”
She said not to be gentle, and if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s making sure a woman gets what she wants. One hand moving to her hair, I grab a fistful of those lush red strands and I tug.
“Oh God,” she yelps. And then she moans—a long, lingering sound signaling the edge of bliss.
“Again,” she begs, her voice raspy.
I let go of her hips, bring both hands to her hair and my teeth to her neck, nipping her, biting her.
She cries out her pleasure, and I rope my fingers in her hair once more, gathering it in my fists. I tug it back, tugging her down harder on me at the same time. Like that, I control her moves, and the exquisite torment on her face tells me she loves it.
I meet her eyes. “This is better than my fantasies.”
“Do you fantasize about me a lot?”
“Every night. Every morning. All the time.”
I yank her hair again. Hard. Rough. Demanding.
The way she likes it.
She’s saying God’s name as her eyes squeeze shut, and her lips part in a gorgeous O, and then she’s silent for one long, lovely, suspended moment until she cries out.
When I hear her orgasm, there’s no doubt the neighbors will, too. The sound of her passion rattles my own climax free. Pleasure thunders down my spine, barrels into my thighs, and I come.
I say her name because it feels like that. Like erotic, filthy, fantastic, can’t-believe-I’m-finally-having-her joy.
Eventually, she gets the tour. It lasts all of thirty seconds, since this is French real estate, after all.
“It’s my mum’s sister’s flat, so I lease it from her. Aunt Sophie, who was known for giving me the most amazing treats during the holidays,” I explain as I show her the minuscule bedroom.
“Sophie sounds like my kind of relative.”
“She is.”
“And does this mean the Thomas family gets to keep this flat
