dwindling and her questionable trust in him growing, she relaxed against him.
He speared her again. He removed his hand and smiled as if reveling in the desperation of her gasp. The high was excruciating, nauseating, and orgasmic. Her head swam. Her vision flooded with explosions of color. Her body ignited.
“Fuck me, Blake.” She panted through the words, barely able to find the next breath. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me …” The tables flipped. She became a doll. Used. Owned. Manipulated.
But only because it suited her.
“Oh, I’m fucking you, baby.” A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek and splattered on her shoulder. She woke from her daze. Maybe she finally hijacked the air she needed. Or maybe her dominant side grew wary of playing the puppet. Whatever the reason for this influx of clarity, she used it to her advantage.
Keahilani elbowed him in the gut, and he crumpled across her back. She weaseled away as he sputtered and cursed and then resumed her role as ruler by snatching his shaft and yanking him to the bed.
“Lie down.” Calculation frosted her words.
Scowling, he obeyed. She settled beside him, sheathed his dick with her lips, and owned it. He winced, and his knees drew up. “You’re fuckin’ killing me, Kea. God, please fuckin’ kill me. I wanna die with my cock in your mouth.” He fisted her hair, holding her in place. The thrusts deepened, cutting off her air supply again. She went along with his little choking game, held her breath, and grinned around him. This was child’s play to a woman like her.
She pulled hard, teasing him to the point of pain. Droplets of fluid pooled at the back of her throat. She swallowed. His teeth clenched as pants rushed in and out between them. He fucked her mouth until his eyes rolled. Then she squeezed his shaft at the base, cutting off the orgasm. She thumped his dick against her parted lips several times, teasing with darts of her tongue and skidding teeth along the thick veins. Her grip loosened, but she didn’t let him go. She sat up next to him, legs open, and leaned over, burying him in shadow. Her strokes hurried, and an eruption of pleasure mounted between her thighs. Suddenly, he wasn’t the only one being masturbated.
Two fingers churned inside her. She rode them with violent hip spasms while jerking him off. When hot, white shots popped across her fingers, she fell victim to her own orgasm.
She powered through the sensual explosion with nothing to hold onto except his shaft and lips, which appeared out of nowhere, found hers, and grounded her so firmly to him, she could have been covered with six feet of dirt and wouldn’t have noticed.
You didn’t take lips like that lightly. The possession in them could turn deadly in an instant with the right rival.
As the pleasure-filled storm below died a slow death, the lips above held her steady, gave her adequate time for grieving, and provided plenty of support in the aftermath of loss. His finger-banging slacked off to a gentle rub and eventually stopped altogether. When the kiss ended, he stared at her and traced a long, lazy line up one of his glazed fingers with his tongue. Reality accepted the change of command from fantasy, and she emerged from the vivid, waking dream a few ounces lighter thanks to the hole in her chest filled with emptiness.
The lust purged, she sat up and said nothing. He dipped his torso off the bed, fished in his shirt pocket, and retrieved a rolled joint, a pack of cheap, white-plastic-tipped cigars, and a book of matches. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the table, uncapped it, and swigged half. He passed the remains to her, and she imbibed.
Twisting up the weed, he said, “You smoke?”
Shit. The heat reactor shut the rest of the way down as coolant flooded her chest. Her internal shields flew up and warnings in her head shouted for her to leave. She glanced to the window. “No.”
He cocked his head to the side and then ducked his chin. Was he
He speared her again. He removed his hand and smiled as if reveling in the desperation of her gasp. The high was excruciating, nauseating, and orgasmic. Her head swam. Her vision flooded with explosions of color. Her body ignited.
“Fuck me, Blake.” She panted through the words, barely able to find the next breath. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me …” The tables flipped. She became a doll. Used. Owned. Manipulated.
But only because it suited her.
“Oh, I’m fucking you, baby.” A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek and splattered on her shoulder. She woke from her daze. Maybe she finally hijacked the air she needed. Or maybe her dominant side grew wary of playing the puppet. Whatever the reason for this influx of clarity, she used it to her advantage.
Keahilani elbowed him in the gut, and he crumpled across her back. She weaseled away as he sputtered and cursed and then resumed her role as ruler by snatching his shaft and yanking him to the bed.
“Lie down.” Calculation frosted her words.
Scowling, he obeyed. She settled beside him, sheathed his dick with her lips, and owned it. He winced, and his knees drew up. “You’re fuckin’ killing me, Kea. God, please fuckin’ kill me. I wanna die with my cock in your mouth.” He fisted her hair, holding her in place. The thrusts deepened, cutting off her air supply again. She went along with his little choking game, held her breath, and grinned around him. This was child’s play to a woman like her.
She pulled hard, teasing him to the point of pain. Droplets of fluid pooled at the back of her throat. She swallowed. His teeth clenched as pants rushed in and out between them. He fucked her mouth until his eyes rolled. Then she squeezed his shaft at the base, cutting off the orgasm. She thumped his dick against her parted lips several times, teasing with darts of her tongue and skidding teeth along the thick veins. Her grip loosened, but she didn’t let him go. She sat up next to him, legs open, and leaned over, burying him in shadow. Her strokes hurried, and an eruption of pleasure mounted between her thighs. Suddenly, he wasn’t the only one being masturbated.
Two fingers churned inside her. She rode them with violent hip spasms while jerking him off. When hot, white shots popped across her fingers, she fell victim to her own orgasm.
She powered through the sensual explosion with nothing to hold onto except his shaft and lips, which appeared out of nowhere, found hers, and grounded her so firmly to him, she could have been covered with six feet of dirt and wouldn’t have noticed.
You didn’t take lips like that lightly. The possession in them could turn deadly in an instant with the right rival.
As the pleasure-filled storm below died a slow death, the lips above held her steady, gave her adequate time for grieving, and provided plenty of support in the aftermath of loss. His finger-banging slacked off to a gentle rub and eventually stopped altogether. When the kiss ended, he stared at her and traced a long, lazy line up one of his glazed fingers with his tongue. Reality accepted the change of command from fantasy, and she emerged from the vivid, waking dream a few ounces lighter thanks to the hole in her chest filled with emptiness.
The lust purged, she sat up and said nothing. He dipped his torso off the bed, fished in his shirt pocket, and retrieved a rolled joint, a pack of cheap, white-plastic-tipped cigars, and a book of matches. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from the table, uncapped it, and swigged half. He passed the remains to her, and she imbibed.
Twisting up the weed, he said, “You smoke?”
Shit. The heat reactor shut the rest of the way down as coolant flooded her chest. Her internal shields flew up and warnings in her head shouted for her to leave. She glanced to the window. “No.”
He cocked his head to the side and then ducked his chin. Was he
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