Page 72 of Cinderella Is Faking It

“It doesn’t make sense. I hate wet kisses on my skin. But I wanted to have traces of you inside of me. Not on me. In me. I don’t know. It sounds stupid.”

“Come here.” I pulled her into my lap, opened that silk jacket and shoved her dress up to her waist, her bare ass resting against my legs, her pink pussy opened wide and still glistening. I sucked two of my fingers into my own mouth and released them covered in a thin sheen of spit. “Ride my hand.”

“What?” She looked down at my hand in the space between us, chest trembling. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” I widened my knees to spread her legs further and positioned my fingers at her entrance, barely opening her up. She let out a small gasp and gripped my shoulders for support. “Ride.”

“Your driver,” she protested, tilting her hips ever so slightly to slide onto my hand a little, desire already winning against her doubts.

“Can’t hear past the sound-proof partition,” I explained anyway.

Her lips fell open in wonder and pleasure as she took my fingers down to the knuckle, then started rolling her hips back again. Her eyes dropped to where our bodies connected, my fingers glistening before she pushed herself onto them again. Once she’d tested out how to tilt her hips, I met her accelerating movements, each thrust growing faster, more desperate.

“Beck, I can’t,” she whimpered and stopped moving mid-thrust, grasping at my shirt.

“Talk to me.”

“We’re in a car. There’s people outside. I don’t know what to do with my hands.” She winced, squeezing around my fingers as the thoughts started clouding her mind.

“Tinted windows. Nobody can see. -Put one hand in my hair, one on the handle above the door,” I said, calmly. She did. Earning herself enough leverage to pull herself up and fuck my hand harder than before. “Good job, sweetheart.”

“Oh god,” she moaned, rocking against me.

“That’s it. You’ve got it. You’re so fucking gorgeous with your pussy all covered in my spit and cum. You’re all mine, Blondie.”

“Oh god, oh god.” Her breathing grew frantic, her hips tilting faster, and I curled my fingers into her. She cried out as I hit her G-spot.

“Such a good little cunt, look at your sweet pussy milking my fingers.” I hadn’t imagined the ripples in her muscles when I’d told her how good she looked covered in my cum, lying on the island. Every dirty praise, she lapped up like water in the desert.

“Beck, Beck,” she gasped my name, voice growing smaller with each thrust.

“Good girl, keep going. You’re doing such a good job.”

God, she was so fucking beautiful, and she unraveled in my lap with a series of high-pitched moans, fisting my hair, tears rolling down her cheeks, before collapsing against my chest, sobs rocking through her. I waited until her pussy stopped quivering before I pulled my fingers out and started rubbing her back instead.

She stilled after a few moments and stayed curled in my lap, face buried in my shirt.

I didn’t expect her to be ecstatic after her first orgasm. Not with all the mental blocks that had kept her from it. But I expected… something. Instead, once we got out of the car at my place, she went through the motions of coming home without a word or look in my direction. She was damn near catatonic as I boxed us into the shower and washed the night from her skin and hair, then toweled her down and sat her down on the edge of my bed. It wasn’t until I pulled a shirt over her head that she even seemed to blink.

Fuck. Had I broken Blondie?

“This isn’t my shirt,” she said, voice small.

“Sure, it is. I told you I’d take care of it.”

She furrowed her brows in a deep frown and bent her spine, rolled her neck, shaking her head. “Mh-mm, no.” She contorted herself to reach behind her and pull on the neckline of the pink shirt that was an exact carbon copy of the one I’d ruined by tying her to my refrigerator with it. “I cut out my tags.”

No point in lying even though I could have slapped myself for such a silly oversight. “I’ll cut them, hold on. I’m afraid yours was stretched beyond repair.”

“It’s a limited edition from a couple of years ago.”

“I know,” I chuckled. A limited-edition Taylor Swift shirt was not as hard to procure as the tone of her voice made it seem. “Don’t worry, it’s practically brand new. You’re the first one to wear it.”

“How did you get it?” she asked as I brushed wet strands from her neck to access the scratchy little tag in the shirt.

“I bought it.”

“People have offered me their first born for that shirt.”