His chest is against my back and his hand is under my hips, teasing my clit and rocking me back into him. “As a hero,” he says, his words punctuated by his thrusts, “it’s my job to make sure my damsel is very satisfied.”
“How will you know when I’m satisfied?”
“I’m not sure,” he says against my ear, “But there are a lot of walls and floors in this place, and I plan on using them all to fuck you.”
“Oh God.” The way he talks turns me on even more, and the red fire of arousal curls through me like a flame.
Chance stops talking then, holding me still while he fucks deeper, harder, and I’m filled with him until I’m almost bursting. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” It’s a chant that’s echoing around the apartment. I know this is going to be fast. We’ve been flirting all day, and I’m too aroused to last long.
His Prince Albert is pressing against me in exactly the right way, and I come, hard and fast. I feel it spilling down my legs as he continues to fuck me, grunting with the effort. The pleasure is red-hot, consuming me and remaking me, and I’m still in the middle of the orgasm when he comes, sending me over again into a second level of pleasure. It always takes us a few minutes to come back to ourselves, but we do.
He cleans up and joins me on the floor, pulling me into his lap so we can rest against the wall. “See?” he says. “We don’t need furniture.”
“I guess we don’t.”
Chance weaves his fingers in my hair softly, pulling my head back for a kiss. “I don’t need anything, as long as I’m with you.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s enough.”
The moment hangs between us, the unspoken I love yous passing between us. And then there’s a light in Chance’s eyes and he grins at me. “You have a lovely kitchen island in this apartment.”
“And?”
He shrugs. “It’s not furniture, but it’s close enough.”
“You make a good point,” I say, laughing.
He lifts me off the floor, and tosses me over his shoulder and I squeal while he carries me to the kitchen. “I can’t think of a better place to taste you than in the kitchen,” he says, laying me across the island. “And that’s just the start. I’ve got so many plans.”
I can’t speak, because his mouth is already on me, and the pleasure is carrying me away.
THE END
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Excerpt of BIG MAN
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Chapter One
Sasha Bluebell
The letter arrives at the worst possible time.
I’m currently between clients, juggling freelance jobs from my last company, where I was their head paralegal consultant until I had enough of their bullshit pseudo-assignments and quit to pursue my own thing. But it’s been slow-going in the freelance world, and it’s taken me a while to build up a private client base. Originally I took on a couple of gigs for my old firm on a case-by-case basis. Now they’ve flooded me with so many that it feels like I’m full-time again, minus the healthcare benefits.
Not that I can complain about the money. That, at least, has been more than decent.
Still, my schedule is a wreck. So much a wreck, that when the letter first arrives, I don’t even notice it in my inbox for a week straight. When I do, I take one glance at the cover letter and find myself wincing, wanting to shove it straight back under the stack of unread incoming mail that awaits me on my desk. The longer I can prolong this, the better. Because I don’t want to confront any of the emotions that rise up when I read that first line.
In the Matter of the Estate of Maryanne Bluebell…
No, thank you. I spent a year after Mama died being heartbroken. I don’t need to relive that again, thank you very much. Besides, it took her estate that whole year and an extra 8 months to even get this letter to me. How important could it be?
But eventually, after a week of ignoring that half-opened letter on my desk while I sorted through my current freelance projects, I ran out of excuses. I couldn’t prolong the inevitable anymore. I had to face the music.