Page 164 of You've Got Hate Mail
Our skin slaps together as she pumps harder and harder on me, driving me closer and closer to climax.
Her breasts jiggle in my hands.
Sweat dribbles down my forehead while I thrust into her, matching her rhythm and straining against coming too soon.
“I love you,” she pants, and then she’s grinding down hard on my cock, her vagina tensing and gripping me in a series of spasms that send me over the edge too before I can process what I just heard.
I come fast and thick, everything spilling out of me like a dam breaking.
This isn’t like jerking myself off in the shower.
It’s more.
Deeper.
Harder.
My gut clenches. I grit my teeth and push into my release, flexing my ass like I can go deeper into her, my hands squeezing her breasts while she digs her fingers into my shoulders.
She has her head thrown back, hair spilling all over her shoulders as she moans through her orgasm, and it’s perfect.
What’s more gorgeous than gorgeous?
More beautiful than beautiful?
Ethereal?
Yes.
She’s ethereal.
Perfect.
“I love you,” she gasps again, and then she collapses onto me, spent, as the last of my own release rocks down too.
I fling a limp arm around her back.
She pants into my neck, her breath warm.
More, something deep inside me demands.More.
Yeah.
More.
I love you.
It’s so Cricket.
She doesn’t hold back.
She’s lived through having the worst of humanity thrown at her, and she still gives her all.
She doesn’t meanlovelove.
Or she does, but she means it Cricket-style.
The throw-herself-all-the-way-into-everything-she-does kind of way.
