One Too Many Page 17

  His eyes were burning serious as he leaned in as close to the border as he dared.

  “Grace, listen to me,” he said, knowing as well as I did that we were likely moments away from Thomas Heath’s cocky reappearance.

  I inched toward him to show he had my attention, and his expression was deadpan as he continued.

  “You could get any fucking guy off you put your mind to. You’re beautiful, horny as all living fuck, and your efforts are more than enough to drive any man crazy, even a cold ass sonofabitch like Heath.”

  I was shaking my head but he didn’t stop talking.

  “He paid fifty grand for a night with you, I’m sure as fuck you’re capable of wiping that smug porn star smirk off his face. Just be yourself. Show him who you are. He won’t be able to resist.”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You think I should–”

  “I think you should do whatever you want to get the most out of this fucking night. You think you can’t make him come, I think you’re selling yourself seriously fucking short. Don’t sell yourself short, Grace. Not for anyone, especially not that smug-faced prick.”

  I forced myself up onto all fours as the sound of running water dried up in the bathroom.

  “I’ll make him come for me,” I hiss-whispered to the husband I loved more than I’d ever loved him in my life. “But you’d better come for me too. I can’t do this without you, Brett. We’re in this together, right? You said so.”

  “Always together,” he whispered back, and I wished I could reach out and tug his cock out of his straining jeans for him.

  “So you enjoy it too,” I said. “Please. I can’t do my best to make him come for me unless you’re going to come for me too. And I can’t… I’d rather walk away from this right now than know all you felt was pain when I lost my fucking mind for a stranger.”

  “That’s not how this is,” he breathed. “Grace, that’s never how I’d see this, not in a million years.”

  “I know,” I told him. “Or I hope I do. But please, Brett, I need you right by me.”

  Hell only knows what kind of fucked-up place we were headed after all this, or how much toxic fallout we’d need to wade through over the rest of our lifetime, but right then, right there, I needed him to lose himself to the same crazy I was, even just a fraction. Even just one cruddy hand-job’s worth.

  “I love you,” I told him, not giving a shit anymore for how Thomas Heath would hear my outpouring from the room next door. “More than anything. Always.”

  “I love you too,” he told me back. “Fuck this fucking shit, Grace, let’s just go with it for all it’s worth. Tomorrow’s another day, and ours will be just fine, I swear.”

  And then he appeared, the cold ass sonofabitch my husband was convinced I could drive crazy, even if I didn’t share his confidence.

  He was just as cold as ever as he stepped back into the room with us, his cock still hard as he finished towelling it dry from whatever wash down he’d just given it. He tossed the towel to the floor as he turned off his silly little sensor, and his smile was nothing more than a dead mask underneath burning eyes as he crossed the line back over to me.

  I stared at him all the while he fired it back up again and approached for a brand new round, and this time I didn’t scuttle away with spiralling nerves and a traitorous pussy screaming wild.

  This time was all for me. All for the woman my Brett believed could win over a man like Heath and drive him just a little way toward crazy.

  Even if I didn’t believe in her myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thomas

  I’d caught enough of their exchange to know my plan for the Fosters wasn’t nearly as on point as I’d anticipated. Their words weren’t the bitter grunts of a woman reeling and a bull-brained husband racked with rage.

  Grace and Brett weren’t stumbling through awkward silence, nor choking on a useless spiel of words to make sense of the situation. Their expressions were still glowing bright with some delusional semblance of commitment as I stepped back into the bedroom — clinging to irrational optimism and a conventional shit-shaped illusion of forever.

  Pathetic.

  It was pathetic.

  And along with it I felt pathetic, ears straining for more as I’d glared at myself in the bathroom mirror.

  So, pretty Grace wanted to please me. Coax me to my own shuddering climax as my self-control took a back seat and her husband watched on proud. She thought I’d leave this place desperate and shocked into silence, dumbstruck at her prowess in the bedroom as her husband congratulated her for seizing the day.

  But no.

  I was always one step ahead of other people’s foolish ideas of success.

  I wouldn’t be shooting my load into her gaping pink holes, not any single one of them. Her failure to get me off would eat at her slowly, scratching her insides in bed at night as her pussy dreamed up ways she could’ve done better.

  She’d never have done better, not without me fully behind her efforts.

  Mastering my own bodily urges was something I’d given attention to for years. Mastering myself was something I’d given attention to for years. That’s what happens when you’re born a pathetic excuse for a human being with a face that doesn’t fit and a father that doesn’t give a shit. You either crumble to dust or you rise tall enough to take a stand on your own two feet. To prove something, both to yourself and to those who fucked you over.

  And if those people aren’t still around, you go for the closest living survivor.

  I hated Brett Foster more in that moment than I had in years. The fact that he didn’t recognise me, didn’t know me, hadn’t given me enough respect back then to even acknowledge my existence and the shit he’d inadvertently helped bring down on me simply made it worse.

  An apology would never come from a mouth like his, not one that really meant something. The only respect I’d ever get from a guy like him was the grudging, hate-filled acknowledgement that I’d taken what was his without even really wanting it. Taken his self-respect, his overblown confidence from a life lived on the easy side of the street, his natural belief that he’d always come up smelling of roses.

  Their stupid plan for the rest of the evening tightened and razor-sharpened my own, an even greater victory presenting itself ripe on the platter.

  I’d take Brett Foster’s wife from him, just as I’d planned. I’d destroy their marriage from the inside out, sitting back patiently while it crumbled around their ears until finally, she came calling after me. The man who’d opened her eyes so wide to greater pleasures.

  Only this time she’d be leaving a loyal husband to run after a man who hadn’t even wanted her enough to shoot his load once this evening.

  Brett wouldn’t know humiliation quite like it. Not in ten lifetimes.

  His pretty Grace was more confident than I’d seen her as she waited on all fours for me to join her back on the bed. There was a twinkle in her eyes, the siren within her calling loud at the prospect of driving me wild.

  Her admission of feeling like a failure these past few hours was a lethal weapon in my grip as I climbed onto the mattress with a wider smile than I’d previously allowed myself.

  Failure always hurts so much more when you give your all and come up lacking.

  She’d shrug it off at first, I was sure of it. Brett would tell her it didn’t matter that I didn’t shoot my load for her, that I was just an idiot, that she was more than good enough in the bedroom for him, where it mattered, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not for long.

  Not when the memory of her failed efforts came back to haunt her at night.

  I’d been planning to leave her pussy dribbling slick with a parting gift as generous as the load I’d planned to leave in her asshole.

  Now she’d get nothing.

  Not one fucking thing for her efforts. Not one fucking smile at my expense as she reminisced fondly back to how I’d lost control.

  I wouldn’t be losing
control. Not ever, and certainly not tonight.

  “I think it’s time that tight little cunt of yours took my cum,” I told her, and her eyes lit up like the greedy slut I’d been hoping for. I wrapped my hand around her neck and held her firm as I pressed my mouth to hers, and she was more aggressive with her kisses this time around, slipping her tongue against mine like a minx on a mission. I let her guide me backwards as she made a move to climb on top, relaxing as she straddled me and rubbed that sopping wet slit along the length of me.

  “Fuck me,” she breathed. “I want to feel you come for me.”

  “Work for it,” I grunted. “Show me you deserve it.”

  I felt like a cunt, even under the gutful of self-righteousness I carried like a shield through every aspect of my world. I knew I was a selfish bastard as her sly little smile made her whole pretty face light up.

  What I didn’t expect was for her to ride me so fucking tenderly. Her fingers so genuine in their needy exploration of my body.

  I didn’t expect her to move on me in understated motions, soaking me up like she really did want to understand what would make me harder. Hotter. Desperate to lose control in that sore little pussy of hers.

  This wasn’t the writhing, moaning dance of a woman purely on a mission to milk the cum from my balls. These were the intimate gestures of a woman really finding her footing between us, struggling for a connection.

  The kind of connection that scared the shit out of me where nothing else in this world still had power to.

  “I want you to feel like I did when you pushed my body to the limits,” she whispered, and dropped her tits to my chest. “I want you to feel as crazy as me in all of this.”

  Her mouth brushed my cheek so softly, her exhale deep and natural as she relaxed her body onto mine.

  “Hold me,” she whispered, and I felt a terrible thump in my gut. “Hold me like this means something. Believe me, it’s the only way you ever really feel someone else.”

  And I didn’t get it.

  Couldn’t get it.

  Didn’t want to get it.

  The soft lust in her eyes as she sought out affection in a stranger’s arms was enough to set my heart racing in panic. In revulsion.

  Disbelief.

  Want.

  And there, in the quiet voice deep inside, was that sad little teenager again, causing yet more havoc on top of the lifetime he’d caused me already.

  I told him it was false. Fake. A stupid game on her part that meant nothing.

  That just because she wasn’t riding me like some kind of wannabe porno queen, didn’t mean this was any less of a cheap illusion.

  But she held me like it wasn’t, her fingers working magic patterns against my skin as she stared with such eager eyes into mine.

  And for just a heartbeat I was certain she saw that little boy crying there, wanting every little bit of love he’d been denied back when it mattered.

  I expected her to close down every flutter of kindness in her bones as I grabbed her with angry hands and slammed her down hard on her back.

  “I’ll fucking hold you,” I grunted and threw her legs up onto my shoulders, ploughing so fucking deep into that tender pussy of hers that she cried out in hurt. “Take this, you dirty little bitch. Take this like it really fucking means something.”

  Her eyes were full of pain as they held onto mine, her whimpers all from the heart as I slammed her with enough force that it left me grunting.

  “Ow, fuck,” she breathed. “I’m so sore…”

  “Show me how much you want my fucking cum now, Grace Foster. Work for it. Beg for it.”

  I lowered my face to hers, my breath fierce against her open mouth as she struggled to take me. “I want it…” she whispered. “Please… if this is what it takes, I don’t care…”

  I’d make her fucking care.

  Her eyes were wide as I shifted my weight onto just one straining arm and slipped my other hand down between us. Her legs thrashed against my shoulders as I pushed two thick fingers in that poor little pussy along with my dick. I fucked her with venom. Pure fucking venom.

  “It’s never hurt like this…” she squeaked.

  I heard Brett rise from his seat but she held a hand up to him.

  “No,” she said in his direction. “It’s alright, Brett, I want this. I need this.”

  “Only good girls get my fucking cum,” I hissed. “I don’t think you’re such a good girl, Grace Foster. I think you’re a wanton little slut who’s playing with fire.”

  I ground my hips until she bucked for me, that tender cunt clenching around my filthy fucking dick-plus-fingers combination.

  “I might not be a good girl,” she whispered, and her expression was so real in her hurt, in her wavering self-confidence, in her splayed fucking soul. “But I want to be… I want to be…”

  Her fingers were shaking as they swept up my raised shoulders and traced a path up my throat. They came to rest on my face, a palm pressed gently to each cheek like she truly cared a shit for me.

  I should’ve pulled away. But I didn’t.

  “Give it to me,” she breathed. “Please, Tom, give it to me.”

  And I couldn’t…

  Oh fuck, how I couldn’t…

  “Nobody calls me that,” I snarled, but it was too late. Her smile was all real.

  “Because you don’t let them,” she said. “Because you try so hard to be in control that you’d rather hurt people than let them feel you. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  I didn’t say a word, just kept on fucking her. Kept on hissing. Breathing. Thrusting.

  She looked like a filthy little angel underneath me, the dawn light glowing in through the window to mix with the dull yellow overhead light on her sweet face.

  And then she groaned. Genuinely groaned. Bucking that clit against my thumb as my fingers squelched along with my dick.

  “Please,” she said and urged my face down onto hers. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

  Kissing her right then was the dumbest mistake I’d made by far that evening. Her tongue was all for mine as I slipped it in her waiting mouth, tasting me like someone who really wanted it. Wanted me.

  It was then that I noticed the slap of flesh on flesh to my left — the undeniable low grunting rhythm of a guy working his own meat as his pretty wife worked her magic on a filthy dirty stranger.

  I couldn’t look. Didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to flash him even the smuggest smirk in my repertoire.

  My eyes were all for his wife. The woman I’d dreamed of back when I still had such dreams to hang onto.

  And then my balls tightened. Hard.

  My dick started tensing inside her as my breathing turned ragged.

  I’d have pulled out if her touch wasn’t so fucking magnetic.

  “That’s it, Tom,” she breathed. “Fill me up.”

  I heard Brett grunting in his seat, cursing out expletives as his wife came one final time.

  I was with her. So close. So close to breaking and giving her what I’d sworn against in the fucking bathroom with fire in my eyes.

  And then the alarm sounded.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Grace

  My fingers jumped from his face as the alarm started screeching. It took me a frazzled second to realise what the bone-grating bleeps meant.

  Seven.

  It was seven a.m. and we were done.

  But I didn’t want to be. Not then. Not so close.

  I felt like Cinderella at midnight, pained and reeling as the magic ran out and the ugly truth of reality came crashing back in.

  The magic disappeared the second my fingers left his face, like I’d been the one to break the spell by pulling away, not the damn alarm clock bleeping and buzzing from the dresser. I didn’t even know he’d set one.

  I cried out in horror as he stilled his breath and pulled out of me with one sharp jerk of his hips. My eyes were fixed on the length of him as he retreated, still hard as steel with his balls
still filled to bursting.

  I’d failed.

  I shouldn’t care. It wasn’t an accomplishment worth having, not now or ever. Whether Thomas Heath came for me should have been so far down my list of priorities that I’d shrug it off with a smile as I waved him goodbye forever, but it wasn’t.

  In that moment it felt like everything. And I felt like nothing.

  Endorphins. Stress. Exhaustion. A body played by a master all night through.

  I tried to tell myself my own feelings weren’t reliable. That I was all twisted up and emotional. That I’d get over it by breakfast.

  But I was lying to myself.

  Again.

  “Time’s up,” he said, like it wasn’t already obvious. He was on his feet in a flash, pulling his pants back up his perfect toned legs from the heap on the floor.

  I was a quivering jellyfish with straggly limbs spread wide as I watched him, my pussy still throbbing with the weird mix of pleasure and pain he’d drummed in hard.

  “But you didn’t…” I began.

  His shrug hurt more than his fingers stretching me to breaking. “As I said, good girls get my cum, Grace Foster. At least you tried.”

  I hated him. Hated the way tears of embarrassment sprung up in my eyes before I could swat them away. I swung my legs off the edge of the mattress, struggling to get to my feet and find my discarded dress.

  “Turn this fucking red line off,” Brett barked out, and I daren’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to look at him. I’d rather hide under the bed than have him see my disappointment at failing another man.

  Thomas took his time heading over to his stupid sensor, his shirt already half buttoned as he keyed in his ridiculous code. The line blinked off and Brett charged across the divide in a breath, taking hold of my flailing arms as I scrabbled under the bed frame for my hiding clothes.

  “I need to get dressed,” I snapped, hating the way my voice sounded so fragile.

  “Shh,” he told me and hugged me close, warm arms wrapping me tight and holding my shivering body to his.