Page 51 of Saving Pookie

He nods in affirmation, and all of a sudden, I'm wishing he'd go back to talking instead of this thing he's doing. He arches back, pulling his cock with him, dragging within my inner walls.

I drop my head back into the pillow and bite down. It's all I can do to stifle the moans desperately trying to escape my throat. I can't let him know how good this feels. And then he's pushing back in, stretching me even wider than before. A slow and steady pace that surprises me considering how we started this. He's more patient than I would have guessed.

But when I glance to the side and see him readjusting his arms, the muscles in his biceps pulling taut, I know that patience is about to go out the window. He stills himself inside me, and I can't help but arch back, greedily swallowing the rest of his length with my ass.

A cracked moan tears through his lips, purring.

He juts his body forward, slamming all the way to the hilt.

The thwack of his body against mine echoes off the walls, followed by a husky growling as he adjusts himself again, stirring his cock against my prostate. He begins to really fuck me, each stroke longer and harder than the last, building a tempo until all that's left is a feral frenzy of thrusting and pumping.

There's something almost healing about the way he's pounding me into the mattress now, my restrained cock screaming and leaking against the sheets. The kind of fuck that leaves you sore for a few days after. The kind you remember for years to come. The kind that reminds you that you were born for this, to be used. That sometimes this is the only way you can make sense of the world because on your worst days, it's the only thing that feels good.

And he fucking feels good. Feels like heaven.

I'm speeding towards release and there's nothing I can do to stop it, even though I want this feeling to last forever.

Smack.

Thwack.

"Gahh-ungh." I cry into the pillow. "Fuuckkkk."

He meets me there, moaning out between ragged breaths. "Feel... so... ahhh... fuckin' good."

"Shhit," I pant. "I... I'm... gonna..."

He pushes hard against the back of my head, stuffing my face into the pillow where I grumble the rest of my sentence. My cock sprays beneath me, coating the sheets and my stomach in cum that has nowhere to go. It swelters there, forming a pool that my pulsing cock slides in and out of every time Braxton thrusts into me.

It's a losing battle trying to regain my bearings and catch my breath as Braxton treats me like his personal fleshjack—not that I'm complaining. Some bottoms are ready to call it quits as soon as they come, but I'm not most bottoms. There's nothing like being fucked through your orgasm, and fucked into the next. My entire nervous system is firing on all cylinders like a game of Tron.

Every stroke of his cock, every time it drags along the inner walls of my ass, every fucking time he buries himself to the hilt, slamming his pelvis against my drenched ass... It awakes something long dormant in me. This feeling I can't describe, of being alive. Because the stinging and the stretching and the burning, and the way my hole has already learned to accommodate his huge cock... I can feel it all.

"Fuccck..." he grunts, his strokes becoming more shallow and less controlled. "Shiii... Pook."

He thrusts one last time and I swear I can feel the fucking explosion, a sticky mess of cum flooding the deepest part of me. He slinks his body back and forth, but just barely, emptying himself inside. And then he collapses forward, the weight of his sweaty body pinning my own to the bed. His head falls over the crux of my shoulder, sweat-slicked curls brushing over my forehead. Each labored breath is quieter than the one before.

And then he sings one last time, as soft as a whisper, "Happy birthday to youuuuu."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BRAXTON

"I know you weren't sick the other night, so do you want to tell me what you were doing?"

Talon asks as he snaps the cords of my microphone into place and pulls my shirt down to cover my back.

I was fucking Pookieis what I would say if I told the truth, but the truth needs to be a lot more discreet these days. At once, I would say the first thought that slipped into my mind. Now, I have to be careful with it. "Unfortunately for you, I really was sick." I turn to him with a shit-eating grin. "You should feel bad about implying I'm a liar."

"And you should feel bad for being a liar." He copies my grin and points to the crew behind me, who is setting up the camera and lighting for the lunch scene. The Spritz is a rooftop bar in Hell's Kitchen and was chosen because it's one of the few bars in the area that would allow filming. "Jules and I were talking," he continues. "We're going to need a little more from you."

I raise a brow, curious. "First I'm a liar and now I'm boring?"

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at the same time. "I said nothing of the sort."

"You've been a lot calmer lately. I don't want to jump to conclusions of my own, but⁠—"

"I'm eating Xanax like candy," he cuts me off. "Y'all would send me to an early grave, otherwise. If you think standing in front of the camera is stressful, you should try standing on this side of it." He pats me on the shoulder and passes me a sideways glare. "Now, you and Gunnar are going to air your grievances during this lunch."