Stroking me. I enjoyed that. I made no secret of it. I returned, stroke for stroke with my tongue as I kissed him, one hand up behind me, around his neck, holding his lips to mine. The more he stroked, the stronger my scent got, the more lost in the kisses we became, until he lifted his lips and told me darkly, “I’m going to fuck you right here.” I knew he’d want that. I liked bringing him to the need, where he didn’t care about anything but getting off. I didn’t say anything. He unzipped his pants, pushed my skirt up and stepped closer to sink himself in me. I leaned over my propped-up leg a little, and let him put his hands on my hips. I think he had about five thrusts in before I asked, “You think this turns me on?” He growled, and pumped me more roughly. I’m sure it pissed him off that I put it like that. He came, and he held me there on his shaft while every last drop emptied into me. With my face practically on my knee, I watched the image in the glass window, reflecting my calmness and his anger.
