Page 6 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)
The next time he shunts into my cunt, my belly bulges with the outline of his thick cock, and a triumphant grin unfurls across his lips. He places his hand on my stomach, feeling where he’s seated inside me, how he stretches my skin. “Gotta fill you with something if you can’t take my cum. ”
Jesus…Christ. I didn’t even know that was possible.
“Are most dicks this abnormally large?” I pant, bearing down on him.
He snickers. “Just mine, and right now, it’s all yours.”
I’m so close. I’m going to have my second man-made orgasm in one night. ONE NIGHT. This is revolutionary, people.
Although the blip in Crew’s pace is nearly unnoticeable, I can feel his thrusts turn sloppy, forewarning the last stretches before he breaks completely.
It’s overstimulating in the best way possible.
He doesn’t let his exhaustion get the better of him—no, he abuses my poor cunt with rougher strokes, and I lose my foothold on his back, puddling against the swelter of sheets that have rucked underneath us.
“Come for me, Merit. I want to watch you fall apart on my cock, and I want to feel you drench the condom in cum. Be greedy with me,” he orders with enough brass to shake the walls.
He retracts his hand from my belly to steel himself on the bed.
The harder he pumps, the greater the pressure mounts in my lower abdomen, right over my bladder.
It’s taking everything in me not to piss myself.
Oh my God. I can’t be the girl who pisses herself during sex.
There’s already one too many bodily fluids involved.
“Wait, I think I have to pee,” I whine.
“That just means you’re almost there. You’ve never squirted before?”
“What? No, God , no. I thought that was something that only happened in porn.”
Squirting sounds messy and terrifying and I really don’t want to be responsible for redecorating Crew’s bedspread, but my pussy is a desperate, leaking mess, and everything inside of me needs to be expelled before I implode.
“Well, sweetheart, this isn’t a porno. This is real, and I’m gonna show you just how enjoyable this feeling can be. Can you be a good girl and push through for me?”
Along with my sensibility, my combativeness is on a one-way trip out of here.
Crew locates my G-spot with alarming effortlessness, practically sniffing that shit out like a narcotic detection dog.
His magic words are enough to send me skyrocketing over the edge as I scream his name, clinging to him in fear that I’ll fade out of existence.
His cock enlarges inside me without warning, then I feel a subsequent rush of warmth against my pulsating walls.
Since we’re chest to chest, he bites down on my shoulder hard enough to mark it, spraying long, abundant ropes of cum inside the condom.
I wince in pain from the force of his teeth, but I don’t dare make a noise.
When I orgasm, it’s just as mind-blowing as the first time around.
Nirvana pummels me in tempestuous waves, temporarily sticking an out-of-order sign on my brain while sensation and revelation battle it out around me.
My own release is not unlike a jet, viscous and velocious, adding to the wetness that already pools in the suction between latex and skin.
He’s quick to collapse on top of me, though he doesn’t give me his full weight.
His heart is a battering ram against my chest, and he holds me like he’s afraid to let go.
I’m not sure if he’s delusional or just exhausted, but a strange part of me feels…
special. Wanted. Not out of pity. Not out of anything other than true human connection.
I’m never going back to battery-operated boyfriends ever again.
When I wake up in the morning, the last thing I expect is to be cuddled against Crew’s muscular chest. He must’ve sucked me into his orbit while we were sleeping.
Two large arms bracelet me, forbidding me from breaking free, and soft snores rumble from his slightly agape lips.
It’s honestly kind of endearing. I’m surprised he hasn’t called me an Uber already.
I blink a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes, wiping the bit of drool by the corner of my mouth. Last night was unreal. My cunt is sore, my legs are sore, and my mind has been doing mental gymnastics ever since I agreed to this arrangement.
Now that I’m no longer blinded by Crew’s irritatingly good looks and excellent sexual prowess, I can understand the gravity of the situation, because not only does the clock spell out an alarming eight thirty in the morning, but the sun—or some higher, omnipotent being—has shown me the truth.
With my vision fully restored, there’s no mistaking the hockey paraphernalia strewn about Crew’s room, ranging from trophies, pictures, news clippings, jerseys, sticks, and skates. And no, this doesn’t happen to be some sick coincidence that Crew’s secretly a mega fan.
Crew himself is a hockey player. The proof is in the padding. Everywhere I look, headlines boast his outstanding athletic abilities.
CREW CALLOWAY
CENTER
TOP LEADING GOAL AND POINT-SCORER OF ALL TIME FOR THE CONNECTICUT HIGH CARACALS
Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I just slept with the enemy. It all makes sense now—the muscles, the stamina, the oozing machismo. How could I have been so stupid?
I need to get out of here, and I need to pray to all things holy that I never cross paths with this deceitful douche ever again. This is the last time I ever trust my pussy.
I force myself to get a grip, trying to squirm free with enough caution to avoid waking the beast. The last thing I need is to explain why I’m rushing out of his apartment before breakfast. I mean, this is standard protocol for a one-night stand, right?
Plus, I’m dignified in my departure seeing as he misled me.
I don’t owe this scumbag anything! If I could gather up my cum and stuff it back inside me, I would!
Finally, after minutes of wiggling, I somehow manage to duck below his arms and weasel out of his embrace.
He stirs to roll onto his stomach, which not only highlights his impeccable back muscles, but also the still-red scratch marks left from our…
passionate …night together. Jesus, I went full Wolverine on him.
I crawl to the edge of the bed before executing a—perfect, if I do say so myself—Houdini escape onto the floor.
With my dignity hanging on by a sad, loose thread, I collect my various articles of clothing, mentally chastise myself for being swayed by his charm, and tug my jacket and jeans on to hide the battlefield of bite marks he left in his wake.
I have twenty-five minutes to make it to campus, and calling my parents for a ride out of Hookupville is out of the question.
This wasn’t how I wanted to start my first day of junior year.
I was supposed to get a full ten hours of sleep in my comfy, king-sized bed, wake up to a delicious breakfast, and arrive at my class thirty minutes before start time.
Not even a month living back in Minnesota, and I’ve already fucked up. I made a promise to myself that I would never, ever sleep with a hockey player after all the heinous things I’ve witnessed.
And Merit Lawson doesn’t break promises.