Page 22 of Wicked Design
Chapter Six
If heaven existed, Van Gogh had reached it. Clover’s satiny skin, her heat, and scent mesmerized. He’d told her she was narrow. When it came to her cunt, tight was a better word choice, her slick sheath hugging and caressing his cock.
Another shudder sped through him. He wanted to hump her like a lunatic and make the bed jump. If he wasn’t careful, he’d come after one thrust.
He’d waited too long to be inside her, the reality far better than his most salacious fantasies. In them, he’d tied her to his bed or bent her over his convertible chair at the parlor, her ass high, legs spread, ready for discipline and everything else.
The images made him so fucking hard he pushed them aside in order to maintain control.
They returned with vindictive force and more detail.
Shit, shit, shit.He should have masturbated before he’d left work to keep from coming too fast and disappointing her. There were few things in life he wanted to avoid more. Thrilling and pleasing Clover was all that mattered to him, and not only to prove he could do so, but because he wanted to bring her endless joy.
As an artist and a woman, she got him when no one else ever had.
He pulled his mouth free and heaved air, desperate for it.
She breathed as hard as he did. “You okay?”
“Turned on. You?”
“Yeah.” She giggled. “Obviously.” She squeezed her pussy around his cock.
His hair stood on end. “Jesus fuck. Stop.”
“Too much?”
He wanted to lie but couldn’t. His face heated, giving away his embarrassment. So far, the nth time tonight. Thankfully, with her he felt he could be himself. “I don’t want to come too fast. Give me a sec.”
“Take all night. I’m not going anywhere.”
She was either the kindest woman he’d ever met or really into him. Like, seriously.
A nice thought, except he wasn’t foolish enough to believe the impossible dream. Given her looks and sweet nature, she could have hooked up with any guy. Fuck, he was glad she hadn’t, that she’d chosen him for tonight.
To thank her, he intended to perform well beyond any man she’d dated.
He stroked her clit.
Her gaze went glassy, cheeks red.
He risked a thrust, burrowing deeper into her heated core. His balls screamed for relief and his rod thickened, but he didn’t lose his wad. After chancing more pumps, he finally fell into a rhythm he could handle, a slow easy slide in and out of her, the sight astonishing.
She moaned throatily.
Sweat poured into his eyes. His shoulders burned. He rubbed her harder, pumped faster.
Her legs tightened around his hips. The bedframe squeaked, and the headboard knocked into the wall, causing a racket.
She growled louder than the other noise and squeezed his rod, adding to the friction, driving him fucking nuts. He wanted to shout for her to stop but couldn’t find enough breath. His passion betrayed him at every turn, propelling him toward climax. He fought release as he never had, pushing her softness and heat from his mind, concentrating on crappy things instead. Inking in the parlor window. Exposing his talent to careless, sometimes cruel comments. Dealing with customers who didn’t know what they wanted and hated what he suggested.
“Now, now, now.” Clover cupped his balls.
He choked and gasped.
She fondled him.
Van Gogh lost it. He drilled her hard and fast and thumbed her nub.
