“You have already hurt me. Once.” She lifts her knee and shows me an old scar. I remember what it was from: the time when I pushed her off the zip line because she was a scaredy cat and I had never seen her scared before.
I tilt my head, lifting her knee to meet my lips. Kissing it gently, I reassure her, “I will never hurt you again.”
“Do you promise me?”
“I promise you,” I whisper, placing my body on top of hers, our intimate position making this moment more arousing.
“Then take me,” she says confidently. “I’m yours.”
Two words that ignited an already-burning flame into an uncontrollable fire. I ravaged her with kisses, covering every inch of her body. I fucked her tight pussy for what seemed like forever, building the sweat between our bodies until we were both drenched. I tasted her arousal, making her come multiple times and forcing her to keep going because I knew her limit wasn’t reached. And when I got greedy, I watched her, on her knees, suck on my cock with her eyes desperate for more. The noise she made from the excess saliva had me teetering on the edge until I had to back off for just a moment, cooling myself down and throwing her onto the sofa beside the bed where I made her spread her legs and demanded she come . . . again.
She was insatiable. Wanting me to do things to her that I hadn’t done to anyone before. When her body lay limp, exhausted from her blissful finish, I took the liberty to make her suck me off again, commanding that she take me all in.
“Logan . . .” she hums with her eyes half closed, “I don’t know how much longer I can go.”
I’m pounding her hard, knowing she was on the verge again. Her body gave me the signs, her pussy clenched around my cock warning me she was close. “You said that three orgasms ago. I’m not done with you yet.”
She moans in delight, ignoring her exhaustion and begging me to make her come again.
I stop abruptly, her body reacting and eyes opening.
“Don’t stop.”
I grin wickedly. “Baby, this is just the beginning. Are you ready for your finale?”
She arches her head back with a laugh. “I’m ready.”
“Get on all fours,” I command.
I grab onto her hips and help her move, kissing the top of her shoulder to ease her nerves. The curves of her ass are beckoning me, delicious and fuckable. I run my hands along the curves, stopping just shy of her hole. Building up the saliva in my mouth, I drop some onto her ass, spreading it nice and wide ready for me to enter. I slowly graze the tip of my cock, entering in slowly as her body almost buckles. I stop, rub the small of her back, and wait for her to push back. When she does, I move in deeper until I’m all in.
Brushing against her ear, I whisper, “Are you okay?”
“Why do you have to have such a big cock?” she barely speaks.
I try not to laugh, taking it as a compliment. I grip onto her hips, using them as handles and guiding her through the pain. Her moans become deeper, and when her back buckles in, I know she is almost there.
I lean forward, twisting her hair in my hands and pulling her hair back so her face met mine.
“Come for me.”
Her face turns bright red and when I demand she come again, she muffles her screams biting down on her lips. It’s enough for me to finish, and when I deepen the strokes, it spirals through me ripping my entire body to shreds until we’ve both collapsed on the bed.
“I can’t even . . . what’s the . . . talk,” she finally gets out.
A small laugh escapes but it’s filled with pain from my aching muscles. I had worked myself to almost death these past few weeks and it paid off. I didn’t know what excited me more: winning or having her lay naked beside me.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I could go again.”
“I think my vagina is broken,” she mumbles with a smile.
I turn my body around, making her do the same so we’re both laying sideways. Staring into her sleepy eyes, I think about what this day meant to me. Yes, I worked hard and it paid off. Soccer wasn’t just a sport to me—it was my life. I didn’t exist without it. But the victory meant nothing without her. I had never felt so alive than at this very moment although my body argued that. She wasn’t like any of the women I had been with . . . and she wasn’t Louisa. She was Emerson Chase.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says with her eyes closed.
I think about her question, running my fingers along her cheek. “You’re here.”