I nod, a bit dumbfounded.
Because Spencer Armstrong, a man of grunts and monosyllables and fists that would rather do the talking, has done the unthinkable.
He’s stunned me with his words.
“Now,” he says. “Do you want this?”
He doesn’t need to explain. I know what this is. I nod.
“Do you want me?” Another nod.
“Do you want me to make you come for real?” Enthusiastically, I nod, my eyes unable to look away from his.
“Fucking good.”
He pushes me back on the bed. Flips me onto my stomach. My toes barely touch the floor, his bed’s so high. He trails his hands over my back, and I sigh at the comforting touch, at the warmth that blooms over my skin. His lips settle between my shoulder blades, and he kisses down my spine, to the small of my back until he straightens again.
Without warning, he smacks my backside.
I jump. Gasp at the sting. He covers the spot with the same hand that delivered the blow. Massages it under his palm, leaving only a warm tingle that travels straight to my wet center.
“Do you like that?” he asks in a hushed voice.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. Because I’d never tried it before. I brace myself on my hands, arching over the edge of the mattress. Lick my lips, throat dry. And stick my rear out. “Do it again.”
He does. One swat. To the other side. Followed by another knead to the fleshy globe. And I nod, sighing at the tender caress. I do like it. I like it very much.
“Good,” he says. “Now, I’m going to ask you questions, princess. Real simple ones. They all have the same answer.”
He spanks me again. Both cheeks at once. Squeezing and spreading them, so when I glance over my shoulder at him, I can see his eyes are narrowed in on the glistening wetness he finds there. He sees everything. I want to close my eyes. Tame the embarrassment I feel over my body’s own wanton reaction. But I can’t look away from him. From the hungry look that’s replaced his usual scowl.
When he catches me watching him, he grins. And asks his first question. “What’s my name?”
“Spen—oh!” His hand delves between my legs.
“My name.”
A single finger slips inside me. I can’t think. Can’t focus. Can’t concentrate on anything other than that, but somehow, I manage to moan out, “Spencer.”
“And who just had his tongue in your pussy?”
“Spencer.”
He ups the tempo of his hand. Then, sensing how close I am by the sounds of my breathy moans, he takes his finger out. I whimper, denied my satisfaction. But then he rubs his hand in circles over my clit, slowly bringing me back to that peak. And he stops again, giving me a moment before guiding two meaty fingers back into my slick channel.
“Who’s fingers are fucking you right now?”
His arm rounds my hip. Strums my clit with that hand as his other pumps his fingers inside me.
“Sp-Spencer,” I say.
“Who’s cock are you going to come all over tonight?”
I almost miss the question as he inserts another finger. Curls all three and hits a certain spot against my walls, hard and fast and again and again. I have never been this worked up before. This deliriously aroused.
“I said—”
I don’t hear anything he says because that familiar warmth spreads from my clit to the rest of my body. I surrender to it, let it crash over me and shatter me to pieces as I climax under the torturous delight of his skilled hands. As I arch into his touch and my head falls back on my shoulders, I cry out, “Spencer. Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!”
I collapse on the bed, tension draining from every muscle. He removes his hands, then rolls me onto my back again. I heave breath after breath, lazily blinking until I realize he’s pulled his pants down and is stroking himself with his own fist.
I sit up as much as my body will let me, and I stare at it. That bulge, revealed to me. His cock. The way his hand seizes its girth. How it twists and tightens the length, squeezes all the way up until his thumb spreads a drop of pre-cum over the rounded tip.
Long and hard, indeed.
“You like that?” He catches me staring.
“Yes,” and I gasp, because his hand’s back between my legs, sliding through the wetness there. He captures it on his fingers, then uses it to glide the motion of his hand on his cock.
“Spencer,” I say, not because he asked any question. The sight of him pleasing himself stirs that warm feeling in me. Now that he’s fulfilled one promised orgasm to me, I want more. And the next, I want to feel with him inside me.
“Hold on, princess,” he whispers, squeezing my thigh. Then, he presses his thumb to my clit, and I’m still so sensitive, so tense from the first, that it starts me up all over again.
He crosses to his desk. I lay back down as he opens a drawer, pulls out a condom. I reach up, grasping his blanket in my hands and bringing it closer to me. So I’m surrounded by that woodsy fragrance. It’s stronger than the faded scent from my comforter at home. But here, it’s everywhere. In his room. On his bed. With him. All over me, after this night.
He steps between my legs again. He slaps his cock against my clit. It should be insulting. How Spencer Armstrong just assumes he can do whatever he wants with me. Except I like it. I want it. I crave it more than I ever wanted anything or anyone. He’s kindled a fire in me. One that starts slow before it erupts in flames. One that burns everything in its wake.
“Spencer,” I plead again.
And then he finally gives me what I want. Him, slowly sinking into me. Lightly rocking his hips, inch by inch.
I want to cry.
