Page 115 of Returned Mail

“Fuck, Mia, look at you,” he breathes. “So wet already.”

I'm on the edge of losing my mind, waiting, trembling, my whole body aching for him. And when he gets closer, I feel it. He spits—directly on me. The sensation is shocking, filthy, obscene, and I cry out, my hips jerking backward toward him involuntarily, desperate for more contact.

“Oh, you liked that?” His voice is rough now, but with certain amusement to it. “You like it when I spit on your pussy?”

I can't speak, so I just nod frantically.

“Use your words, Mia.”

“Yes,” I manage. “Fuck—yes, I like it. Please do it again.”

He spits on me again, harder this time. I watch over my shoulder as the warm liquid hits, dripping down, and I'm moaning uncontrollably, completely losing myself.

“That’s it. Now you are all wet, messy, and dripping for me,” he says as his fingers slide through the wetness, spreading it everywhere, making everything slicker. One thick finger circles my entrance, teasing me, and then he pushes inside. I moan, my forehead dropping to the couch cushion as my whole body clenches around him.

“Fuck, if you could see yourself right now, sweetheart,” he mutters, like he's in awe. “You look so—fuck.”

He adds another finger, stretching me open, and I'm pushing back against his hand, desperate for more. I’m clenching around his fingers, trying to pull him deeper.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please, what?”

“Please, I—I need you inside. Please.” I hear the rustle of fabric as he shoves his sweats down, and then I feel it. His cock pressed against my entrance. He's so hard, so thick, and absolutely perfect. He pushes forward slowly, and I feel every single inch as he fills me. The stretch is intense, almost overwhelming, and has me gasping.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, fingers digging into the couch.

He doesn't stop until he's completely buried inside me. Then he stills, giving me a second to adjust. “You okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“Yes. Move. Please move.”

He pulls back, and then he's slamming forward. Hard, deep, absolutely filling me, and I'm crying out so loud I think the neighbors can hear me. The sound is everything, all the wetness, the slapping… My body is rocking forward with each thrust.

“Fuck,” I moan. “George⁠—”

He sets an absolutely brutal pace. It’s deep, rough, primal. Exactly what I didn't know I was desperate for. No one has ever fucked me like this before. One hand grips my hip, the other slides up my back, shoving my t-shirt higher, until it’s gone, exposing me.

I'm completely naked now, completely on display, and I've never felt more wanted, more claimed, more his.

Then his hand tangles in my hair, and he grips hard, pulling. My head jerks back, and suddenly my back is pressed against his chest. The angle shifts completely, and he's even deeper inside me—impossibly deep—and I'm screaming.

“Oh fuck, George,” I cry out.

His mouth finds my neck, and he’s sucking hard, his teeth scraping my skin. His other hand wraps around my waist, holding me steady as he continues thrusting. I can barely breathe. Can barely form a thought.

There's only the feeling of him buried deep inside me, his mouth devouring my neck, his hand pulling my hair. He yanks harder, forcing my head back until I can see his face.

His eyes are wild, dark, completely feral and undone.

His tongue invades my mouth, and I taste myself on his lips, his tongue, a reminder of how much he wants me. Then he pulls back just slightly, his breathing heavy, and he spits. He spits directly into my mouth. I swear I don’t know if this is hotter than before, but I do know that this man is using me as he pleases, and I can’t get enough.

Without thinking, without hesitation, and without a shred of shame, I swallow it.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You're fucking perfect, Mia.”

His hips snap forward harder, faster…

“You feel so tight around me,” he says against my ear. “So wet.” That does it. Something inside me breaks. I’m moaning uncontrollably now, pushing back to meet every brutal thrust, and clenching around him.