Page 21 of Sunday's Best

Sunday

Oh god, I want your cock so bad

Holden

What would you do with it?

I swallow. What would I do with it? Great question.

Sunday

I’ll suck it first, get it nice and wet

Rub the tip over my clit until I cum

Holden

Then I’ll fill you so fucking full with it

You’ll take it

Sunday

Your cock feels so good stretching me

Holden

Your pussy was made for me

Oh my fucking God. I’m done for. Right on the edge. So close to shattering, I want to scream. My fingers frantically move over my clit until my sweat-slicked back is peeling off the sheets and I’m squirming and whimpering into the pillow. The blankets snarl around my ankles, and I murmur a string of expletives into the humid air.

Holden

Give it to me, angel. Come all over my cock

Fuck I need it

Tossing my phone down, I press two fingers of my left hand inside my pussy. In and out, picturing being ruined by his cock. I can hear him jacking off, skin on skin, our hands moving in sync. That pushes me to the edge. The final piece for my fantasy of him buried deep inside me, the slap of skin and the look in his eyes as he falls apart.

“Holden. Please,” I whine, begging for release.

Pleasure rushes over me, more intense than I’ve ever had alone, and I’m a writhing, spasming mess on top of the bed. My feet brush over the sheets, cramping and flexing. My teeth clamp down on my bottom lip, and I don’t stop coming until something primal inside me tears my hands away from my pussy.

A guttural moan barrels from Holden, carrying my name with it. “Holy fuck—Sunday.”

Curling into a ball, I fight to catch my breath. My hair’s stuck to my neck and face, and I paw at it with an exasperated grunt. Aftershocks carry through my arms and legs, and I stroke a hand across the sheets, grimacing at the mess I made. Holden’s bed creaks, and he blows out a long, ragged exhale.

Holden

I’m sorry. That was too much

Sunday

It wasn’t anything, remember?

The small space smells exactly how I imagine it would smell if we’d had sex, though. So while I’m in the bathroom cleaning myself up, Holden opens all the windows and sprays a few blasts of his cologne, for good measure. Then he slips into the tiny bathroom while I sort out my messed-up bedding and tuck myself in, shivering against the damp outside chill and the uncomfortable wet spot I’m lying in.

We don’t talk. I fall asleep to the sounds of his soft snores and the smell of him lingering in the air.