“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound neutral and not at all like my entire world had flipped upside down.
I’d gotten a few messy hand jobs in the past, but nothing had felt like this.
The sensation of his hard, wet shaft against mine, hot and silky soft, was incredible.
His grip was tight, his big hand circling both of us. He slid his hand up, squeezing hard enough a drop of precum beaded on my tip. He did it again.
“Oh fuck. Why does this feel good?”
“Because you’re a slut for me. You’d do anything I wanted, wouldn’t you? You’d let me fuck you. I know you would.”
My hole clenched at the thought of him sliding that perfect dick inside me.
He was right. I would let him.
What the fuck did that say about me that I’d have sex with the person I hated most in the world?
“I hate you.”
“I know.” He chuckled darkly. “I hate you too. But you don’t hate this.”
He stroked faster, using his chest to keep me against the fridge, and angled his hips back so he could keep working our dicks.
I didn’t bother protesting. What was the point?
I turned my face to the side and closed my eyes as he stroked us hard and fast, working us over.
Hot breaths sawed out of me. Little moans and bitten-off sighs fell from my lips.
It was good, too good.
White-hot desire shot through me. Heat and pleasure pooled in my belly as my body tightened. I was close.
So fucking close.
He let go and stepped back.
The loss of his body was disorienting, and my knees gave out. I slid down the fridge like a rag doll.
“You bastard.” I panted, desperately trying to get my legs under me so I could stand.
He grinned, stroking his perfect dick in his big hand.
“Stay down there.”
I glared up at him but did as he’d said.
As much as I hated him, I wasn’t hating what was happening.
There was no point pretending I didn’t want it.
I did.
And he knew it.
“Open that pretty mouth for me.”
“Why?”