Page 89 of Trouble from Abroad
“Not ‘eating pussy.’ Eatingyoursweet, ripe-as-fuck pussy.”
His fingers slide back in, bold and unrelenting, and I roll my hips, chasing the fullness. I know he’s stretching me, coaxing my body to make space for the monster he’s caging in those pants.
“Don’t tell my colleagues,” he jokes. “They’d never believe I’m all for alternative medicine now.”
I laugh, but of course he chooses that exact moment to curl his fingers and stroke that fucking hidden spot—the one that makes me see constellations. My back lifts from the seat, and the sound that escapes me is part moan, part hymn.
“Fuck, Pres. How do you?—”
“I pay attention, baby. I never stop watching you.”
“So we’re seconds away from crashing, since you’re not watching the road?”
He chuckles, low and wicked, and oh my God, the sound prompts me to rock down harder on his hand, desperate for more friction.
“Would you die a happy woman?”
“Fuck, yes. Just make me come before you roll the car over, okay?”
“Wait. Let me die a happy man too.”
He pulls his fingers out, and I’m ready to riot when he lifts them to his mouth and sucks. Each one. With the concentration of a food critic about to hand out Michelin stars.
The noises tearing out of him are raw, primal. My nails dig in, about to rip the leather right off the seat. We hit a red light, and he adjusts himself.
“There. Now we can both die happily.”
His fingers plunge back in. Straight where my body already knows his name. He rubs me like he’s signing a love letter.
“We’re four minutes away, baby.” He pumps deeper, circles faster, and I grind right back, synced to every filthy beat he sets. “I’m not stopping you until you come, and I’m not changing the route. So, unless you want to give the valet the show of his life, stop fighting it and let go.”
I squeeze his fingers at that idea. Hard.
He feels it. Of course he does. I catch the smug bastard grinning.
“You like that, don't you?” He pinches my clit, and my moans reach far beyond the confines of this car. “What is it that made you tighten around me like that? The risk of being caught? Or do you get off on being watched?”
“Oh, God,” I say, instead of yes to both; my orgasm within reach now.
“Do you like the idea of having people stare at what they can’t touch?” His fingers slam back inside me, slapping my clit, and I meet every thrust. “Because I’m not fucking sharing, Mia.” He fucks me hard. Punishing. Well, supposedly. I’m loving it. I haven’t shown him the list and already I’ve learned something new: clit slapping. Delicious.
He fucks me as deep and rough as the position allows. I’d let him do anything right now. Let him bruise me just to feel him everywhere later.
“They can look, but they don’t get to touch. You hear me?”
It gets me off when he talks like that.
“Fuck, Pres. I’m close. Don’t stop.”
“Such a filthy girl. Come for me, and we’ll do every single thing you’re fantasizing about right now. I’ll make every dirty dream of yours come true.”
I believe it.
So I come, screaming as his palm hits my clit just right, not sure I can make any sound coherent or understandable right now.
His words do things to me I can’t explain within reason.
“I’ll give you everything you want, Mia,” he growls.
