Page 5 of Ruin Me Sweetly

Luke was safe. He’d been hurt, and over the hours of late-night phone calls, he’d come to know how the layers of loss had affected me.

I wanted to be touched. To be held. To be more than a mother again.

As if Luke heard me, he peeled the dress down to my waist, leaning in to kiss my cheek. The dress slid lower until it pooled at my feet, his lips trailing along my jaw. His hands rested over my buttocks as his mouth claimed mine.

He guided me to the bed, laid me down, and before I could yank his shirt free from his waistband, I went for his belt instead. I stretched my back against the soft cotton beneath me, quite ready to violate his pristine bed.

His trousers fell to reveal dark grey boxers, so snug I could see the curve of his balls, the thick, juicy tip straining to escape the elasticated waistband.

Christmas had come early.

I had decorum, so I didn’t clap my hands and sing hallelujah.

The shirt slid down his arms as he moved closer. He seemed to swallow the space between us, chest broad enough to block out the room and any residual doubts.

He slid my bra straps down my arms as I felt his legs brush against mine. I closed my eyes when he peeled the lace away. His large hands cupped my breasts, pressing them together before wet heat enveloped one peak.

Sticky heat seeped into my knickers—already wet from sharing a meal with him, I knew they were ruined.

“Isabella,” he murmured, before tormenting my other nipple with his tongue and lips.

I held onto him, grounding myself as he continued to worship me. His hand covered my belly, pausing over my navel before slipping beneath the lace. He groaned against my breast when he felt how wet I was. His fingers began to work over my folds, one long middle finger pushing through until my hips chased him.

“Luke,” I cried, parting my thighs for him. “Yes.”

“My good girl,” he murmured, his lips moving upwards.

Hot, wet lips trying to kiss every inch of my skin.

“Such a wet pussy, Isabella. You’re perfect,” he moaned, reaching my neck.

Another finger joined the first, and he pushed deeper. I sighed in relief, moving my hands up to hold his shoulders.

“You’re going to take every last inch until I’m balls deep inside this hungry little hole,” he said, thrusting his fingers in and out.

I couldn’t speak. I only had the capacity to pant as I felt that delicious tension build. The filth of his words was fresh and thrilling in a way I couldn’t articulate. So I nodded rapidly, not wanting him to stop. He dragged my knickers down my thighs until I felt them fall and catch on one shoe.

He removed that last barrier between us—his boxer shorts.

I wasn’t surprised to see the well-manicured hair surrounding the fattest cock I’d ever seen. Which was a total of three cocks, so perhaps not relevant. The hair was mostly dark, with some silver running through it. He moved and raised my legs until I lost sight of him.

I felt him there. His cock pressed between my thighs.

Oh god, he was rubbing it over me.

I was about to beg when he held the rounded tip at my entrance. When he didn’t move, I opened my eyes.

“Forever, Isabella,” he vowed, eyes blazing, as he began to spread me open.

My eyelids fluttered, but all I could do was feel. It was warm, persistent, and so very large.

Real.

Yes.

Oh, yes.

His weight pressed down on me before he withdrew and plunged back into me with a deep groan I felt rumble through his chest. I couldn’t move—I was pinned beneath him. He began to snap his hips back and forth like a machine. Each thrust seemed to steal the air from my lungs.