One finger. One single finger, and she’s still tight enough to slow me down.
Abigail cries out and breaks our kiss. Her body tenses and tightens, the hands she was using to push me away now clutch to me as though afraid to let go.
“Relax, Priss.” I lean forward and take her mouth. “Relax and let me in.”
“I don’t…” She scrunches her eyes closed and squeezes a tear through her lashes. “I don’t know h–”
“Just hold onto me.” I drop the single flower to our feet to free up my hand, then I probe my tongue past her lips and share the taste of wine. “Hold on tight, babe. Open your legs a little more.”
I struggle with the angle, though her heels help a little. I struggle with her panties, because I can hardly move my hand unless I tear the flimsy cotton away completely. I struggle with how fucking tight she is, and my mind wages war with itself between tearing her clothes away and claiming her for myself, versus running the fuck away because innocent chicks get attached, and I don’t do attachments.
“Open up, Priss. Close your eyes, and concentrate on breathing. I’ll do the rest.”
“This is wrong. This is so, so, so, so wrong.” And yet, her legs open, and a new wash of pleasure slicks her from the inside and makes my trek a little easier. “This is so, so, so, so wrong.”
“I’ve made a lot of wrong choices in my life.”
I push a little higher, and squeeze her a little tighter when she squirms. Not from pleasure, but from pain. I inch my finger inside and grin when I find my truth.
“You’re a fuckin’ virgin, Priss. Are you kidding me right now?”
“How do you– How…”
She throws her head back and slams it against the stall door when I push further inside. She cries out from the pain, but it mingles with pleasure, and when I use my thumb to play with her clit, her panting from fear turns into the kind of panting that leads to her filling my hand.
“That feels so–”
“Naughty?” I offer. “Do you feel like a naughty girl?”
I crush her against the door, push my leg between hers, and force her to open wider. When her mouth moves into anOthat I know means her brain is about to explode, I take her mouth with mine, and swallow her cries.
“Come on my hand, Priss. Let it go.”
“I don’t…”
Her nails dig into my shoulders and send me wild with need. My cock strains against the fly of my pants.
Normally, I’d already be fucking. It’s not like I didn’t come here tonight with a strip of condoms in my pocket. But if my finger hurts her, then we have a fuckload of conditioning to do before she can take all of me.
I like hurting women in bed. I fuckingcravehurting women in bed. But it has to be done right, it has to be mutually mind-blowing. And tearing someone like Abigail apart just to get my own isn’t my idea of a good time.
“Spencer, I can’t–”
“It’s gonna feel like peeing, Priss. But don’t be afraid. Don’t stop it.”
“I can’t… no, I can’t… I don’t w–”
I press my thumb over her clit, and revel in her cries.
She steps over the ledge with sharp spasms, fills my hand with her pleasure, and my lungs with her screams. Her legs crumble beneath her, so she stands only because my chest is pressed to hers, pinning her up.
I smile, tapping her clit each time she comes down, only for her to shoot into the air again and pulse into my hand.
“For the rest of your life, you’ll always know me as the one who did that to you in a public bathroom.”
I bask in the way she dazedly looks around the room. Her pupils are dilated, her cheeks flushed.
“I will always be who you think about when you let your mind wander. When you’re married to a banker, and he can’t get it up because he’s a pussy, you’ll remember the time Spencer finger-fucked you at a Bishop wedding.”