Page 13 of The Fake Husband Deal

“Why now?”

“I don’t know. I just know I need it from you.” He tilted his head sideways to look at me with heavy lids. “You’re still dressed. Fuck, that’s so hot.”

He relaxed under my touch and the third finder got him begging.

“You’re going to take my cock so well, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

I patted my pockets, which was when I realized I didn’t have any lube on me because my intention when I’d gone to the bar was to get drunk, not to find the most perfect ass I’d ever seen. “Fuck. I don’t have lube.”

“I don’t need it.” He got on his knees and swallowed my cock to the back of his throat. It was slurpy and messy, and fuck, he looked so good down there.

He suddenly stood, leaving me off balance.

“There. You’re all good.”

I fucking was.

He resumed his position, and I lined up my cock and pushed in.

Noah

Igritted my teeth as he filled me. It was painful. Also, painfully slow.

What had come over me when I asked him to wreck me? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bottomed, so why had I so eagerly volunteered my ass for this man?

My therapist would have a field day if I had one.

Inch by aching inch, he bottomed out.

“Are you okay?” he whispered in my ear.

His concern was sweet, even as his big body pinned me against the cold glass. The balcony gave us an extra layer of safety from prying eyes, and with the lights off in the room, I knew there was little chance of us being seen.

Well, me, because while I was buck naked and cock-stuffed, my silver fox stranger was still fully dressed. That difference alone brought out something I didn’t want to consider in depth. Not when my cock was leaking all over the floor-to-ceiling glass window.

“Just fuck me already.”

“You’re topping from the bottom, my dear.”

I gasped as he pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in again. In this position, his cock wasn’t hitting my spot in the way I needed to come.

“Do that again,” I begged.

“Is this what you were looking for when you went to the bar tonight?”

“Yes.” No. Maybe?

He held my hands above my head, lacing his fingers through mine. We were a mix of grunts and skin slapping against skin. The smell of sex was intoxicating.

“You’re so fucking tight. Your ass is a work of art,” he said between gritted teeth as he fucked me senseless against the glass door.

“In the bar,” I swallowed a gasp. “You had this big-dick energy.”

“Big-dick energy?” He laughed.

I met his thrusts, trying to get him to hit my prostate. “Yeah. The way you held that scotch glass. Your long, sexy fingers. I just knew you’d be so good. I wasn’t wrong.”