Page 87 of Lovefool

“Admit it—you’re obsessed with me,” she quips.

“Unhealthily.”

The soundscape is nothing but offensive squelches and mindless curses, my caregiver hardware suffering a full-system failure as I impale her over and over again. There’s a fire in my thighs that wasn’t there before, but I speed up the pace anyways.

The headboard is my new handhold, and I’m half-certain that I’ll do some serious damage to it by the time things are over. A liability charge on top of a noise complaint? Coach would bench me for the rest of my collegiate hockey career.

“Open your mouth,” I order, feeling my saliva glands work overtime.

She does as I say with an earnestness that somehow makes me even harder. I purse my lips, sucking in my cheeks before producing a string of spit that aims for the flat of her tongue. It lands with a sickening splat, and she swallows instinctively, preening at the velvet noise I churn out under my breath.

“Atta girl. You take everything I give you so well,” I praise. “If I can’t feed you my cum, I’ll give you something else to swallow.”

Splotchy streaks of mascara run down Lake’s face, and that primal animal that lives behind my navel is pacing again, demanding to be heard.

I don’t know what comes over me next, but I tether my fist into her hair and yank her up to me, snaking my tongue over the still-fresh trail of tears that muddy her face. She tastes so fucking good, like the first hit of sugar after years of abiding by a restrictive diet.

“Since you love stargazing so much, tell me which stars you see when I split you open.”

She whines in response, rutting into the air, egging me on without ever forming a complete sentence. I grind rougher with thrust after unforgiving thrust, my legs the equivalent of Jell-O despite being sturdily planted on the bed. She’s so unbelievably wet, and I’m a hair-trigger away from meeting her at the same finish line.

“God, fuck—all of them. Don’t stop. It feels so good!” she screams, probably alerting every single one of our neighbors.

The hottest thing a girl can be is loud in the bedroom. It means I’m doing my job right.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Trouble. Scream louder. Let everyone in this goddamn hotel know that you’re mine,” I tell her, my arrogance bolstered by the reedy moans that rocket up her throat. I’m so far gone that it feels like parts of my brain are leaking through a hole in my skull.

“I’m a man who marks his territory, and you’ve been mine ever since the moment you crawled through that window. There was never anybody else.”

Exhaustion-battered, my pumps turn sloppy, and the frequency of her squeezes seem to be slowing down. Dark spots dance in my vision as my heart pitter-patters against my chest. My stamina and my libido and the unshakable, nicotine-like itch to screw Lake well into the early morning all throw themselves into an invisible pressure cooker, intent on pushing me over the edge.

I’ve reached a Lake-induced psychosis, folks.

“You were it for me too,” she huffs, cunt rippling around my daunting girth.

I hazard one last glance at her in her natural state—hair disheveled, face pale, sweaty in a way that liquid shimmers on her skin rather than coagulates into a film. I don’t need a Polaroid to remember this exact moment in time.

“I’d hope so with the way your pussy is gripping my cock.”

Lake chokes on her words. “Fill me to the brim, Sutton. Splatter my walls in hot cum. I’ve been such a good girl, I deserve this. I need this.”

Jesus Christ.

I manage to get a few more strokes in before my ass clenches and my orgasm hits me like a freight train. I follow through with my promise, spilling into her at an unconceivable rate, needing to stabilize myself with my hands on the headboard to keep from toppling over.

The outpouring seems endless—so hot and thick and sticky that my softening cock has been enveloped in a bubble of perpetual warmth. There’s an ERROR message flashing across my brain, probably because my inhibitions took a hike the second I saw that lacy little number she had waiting for me.

Lake groans, promptly coating my length in more cum before melting into the duvet. I pull out of her so I can roll onto my side, and the sated look imbued in her eyes is confirmation that I satisfied her in every way I could. The whole room smells like sex, and we’re both in a sweaty, breathless, boneless heap. I don’t think I’ve ever fucked that hard in my entire life.

Runnels of liquid desire web between her thighs, soaking into the material rumpled underneath us. My dick is in a similar state, still oozing the last of my arousal from the gross surplus that didn’t fit all the way into her cunt.

“You’re suspiciously good at that,” she says with a dulcet tone, mirroring my position, brushing some wet strands of hair out of her face.

I laugh. “At sex?”

“At making me feel loved.”

Maybe it’s only a temporary fix, but in this split second of time when the world doesn’t seem like it’s caving in, the semipermanent worry I’ve nursed within the four walls of my apartment ceases to exist—a root canal for the disquietude that doesn’t want to die quietly.