Love At First Night

35.

I TRY TO laugh.

Really, that's what I intend to do. But somehow the sound that bubbles up in my throat is the lowest and loudest moan I've ever uttered. Lisa doesn't tease me. Her eyes stay on mine, patient and dark with hunger, as she gives me a moment to get over my embarrassment. I wrap a hand around her wrist-the one pinning me to the mattress-and nod.

When she moves again, it's not slow, or shallow, or gentle.

"Look at you," Lisa murmurs. "So good for me. Taking all of it. Knew you could."

Maybe if she weren't buried inside me to the hilt, and maybe if she were laughing at me, I'd have the strength to remind her how cheap I find dirty talk. But I must be off my game, because everything coming out of Lisa's mouth is starting to sound like poetry.

More, I think deliriously. Say more.

Lisa reads me like an open book.

"Messy girl," she says. "Who made you this wet? Who's this for?"

"You," I gasp.

"Who's pussy is this, huh?"

I sob out a laugh. "Mine."

Lisa's hand leaves my shoulder to grip my chin, squeezing my cheeks just hard enough that my lips are forced into an open-mouthed pout.

There's laughter in her eyes. She looks utterly furious about it.

"You and your smart-fucking- mouth." She punctuates each word with a snap of her hips that makes my eyelids flutter and my breath catch. Then she ducks her head and kisses me so hard I see stars. "I set myself up for that one. But nicely played."

"Thank you," I squeak. "Could you please-"

I don't have to finish the thought.

Lisa shifts her weight on one arm again and reaches down between. She pressed her palm down just below the soft curve of my lower stomach and grinds the pad of her thumb on my clit. I return the favor by clenching in that way that made her gasp earlier, and I'm rewarded with the brief stutter of her hips before she finds her rhythm again.

It's too good. Too much. The pressure is unbearable and glorious and, when she tunnels into me, I can feel every single inch of her perfect cock drag against the tender spot inside me. My thighs are tensed and trembling, my toes curled, one hand grasping hard around her wrist-entranced by the way I can feel her muscles and tendons work under her skin as she plays with my clit-and the other hand clutching frantically at her bicep; her shoulder; her dark, disheveled hair. Anywhere to hold on while the tide rises higher and higher.

"Please, please, please-"

"Come on," she says. "You can do it. I've got you."

My back arches. My abs contract. My fingernails carve into her skin.

"Lisa," I gasp.

It's the eye contact that does it. Her hands and her dick and her encouraging words have dragged me to the point of no return, but I am, as I've established, a soft and sentimental bitch. So it's the sucker punch of Lisa's pretty brown eyes, heavy-lidded with lust and bright with affection, locking with mine that shoves me over the edge.

The aching pressure low in my belly coils tight and then, abruptly, explodes.

My eyelids flutter and threaten to slam shut, but I force them to stay open. I need to see Lisa. I need the tether of her watching me while I come undone. And Lisa-my rock, my anchor, the girl who always keeps the door open for me and gives me more than I've ever thought I deserve -holds me as I come apart and back together again, the aftermath of my orgasm leaving me limp and gasping.