Page 56 of Mr. Green
He unzips his pants and then tears a condom wrapper. “If I had known you’d be here looking so fucking perfect, I would’ve brought the toys I got for you. I’m not leaving you to get them for a second, though.”
Then he lines himself up at my entrance and inserts himself, feeling and watching every moment.He must not be hungry. He’s acting like he has all the time in the world.
“I love feeling your pussy around my cock, baby girl. So tight. Your body is so fucking sexy.”
He’s grabbing one of my tits with one hand while he caresses my leg with the other. I close my eyes, paying attention to how right it feels when he’s filled me. I can’t look at the mirror. I’m still not sure about my body. Even though the lights are off, you can seeeverything.
He pulls my hair. It’s a firm grip. It’s not aggressive or painful, but I can tell I should pay attention. “Look at how beautiful you are, baby. Don’t hide from this.”
I do as he says as he thrusts in and out, keeping his hand in my hair. He’s watching the mirror and every now and then he’ll look down to see his dick moving in and out of me. He goes in as much as he can, removes himself slow, then thrusts in.
I’ve never watched myself have sex before. My tits bounce up and down every time he thrusts inside. What I focus on the most is Grant’s look of desire. A look like he’s tasting ice cream for the first time melded with the look of seeing the hottest person alive in front of him. I’ve never seen anyone look at me the way he does. I’ve always wanted someone to. I can’t believe it’s my childhood crush making that face—atme.
He makes eye contact with me in the mirror. “You feel so good, baby girl.”
I moan. He picks up his pace and I come. As I’m convulsing, he lets go of my hair. He puts both his hands on my ass cheeks and pulls them apart.
“We’re not done yet, baby.” His voice is gritty—it sounds like someone else.
He continues his slow thrusts. I collapse onto my arms, opening my ass more. One of his hands comes to my clit and begins to circle it. He flicks faster as he thrusts. He bites the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. I’m exposed, connected, and full. I come again.
After I stop shuttering, he lifts one of my legs to change the angle. He’s holding me around the waist as he keepsmoving his fingers on my clit. His other arm is holding my leg.
His thrusts become quicker. His balls bounce against me at the quick movements. My tits are jiggling as I take shallow breaths. I’m right on the edge of another orgasm.
“Grant!” It comes out as more of a moan. “I can’t.”
“I want one more, baby. You look so beautiful. You look even more beautiful when you come all over my cock.”
He kisses my neck as he keeps a strong pace with his thrusts. His beard tickles my neck and shoulder. His kisses lead to the bottom of my neck, then he nibbles where my neck and shoulder connect. The sensation gives me goosebumps. I reach behind me and grab his hair. I pull as I come, needing something to hold on to.
“Fuck!” he growls. He moves through his orgasm, breathing fast. Then he holds me upright for a few moments. His hot breath dances over my shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “You ready for a shower, Sunshine?”
I giggle. “What about the food?”
“The food can wait. They’re salads.”
I chuckle. “Okay.”
He caresses my cheek. “That dimple is going to be the death of me.”
Then he takes my hand and leads me to his bathroom. Maybe we can go for round two.
Chapter 37
Lana
Grant’s mansion—is nice, really nice. I’d say house, but house is too conservative a word. He has blues, greens, and grays throughout, which is better than beige. His couch is blue. The kitchen has a lot of gray going on, but it’s a chef’s dream. Marble countertops with a huge range above a gas stove. All the appliances are stainless steel and there’s the biggest island I’ve ever seen in the center separating the kitchen and living room.
We’ve made it to the couch and are eating the food Grant brought home two hours ago. I wonder if this is his life all the time. He gets home late from work, eats something he picked up, and then goes to bed? I can’t imagine why he doesn’t like cooking. His kitchen is stocked with everything imaginable—other than food. Don’t rich people have a chef or someone who cooks for them?
“Do you always get takeout?” I ask when he’s bringing a beer and water over.
“Yeah. I never know when I’ll get home. I don’t mind picking up something from somewhere. I do miss having a homecooked meal every once in a while with the smell of whatever is cooking filling the house.”
Challenge accepted.
I’ll find a way to make that happen for him. He said we’d be busy, so I don’t know if I’ll have time to cook for him here. I bet if I did, my secret ingredient will come to life in this kitchen. I don’t want to admit cooking forGrantwould make me show love in my food again, but I have a pretty good idea it’d work.