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My muscles twitched and rippled around him, clenching, wanting to keep him steady and still, even as the throb that resonated through me encouraged him to move.
“Aaron, please.”
He pushed in deep, and a shiver that was half pain, half pleasure rolled through me.
“I don’t want––to hurt––”
“No,” I said, feeling dazed and heavy with need.
“I just want to bury myself in you.”
“Yes,” I pleaded. “Hurry.”
“You have no idea how badly I want those boots over my shoulders and you under me.”
“I’ll keep them on all night,” I promised, my breath catching, “if you fuck me now.”
“I’m taking you right here,” he swore and rammed himself all the way inside me.
That fast, it went from sharp and stinging to a dull, blooming ache I wanted to rub, over and over, on the end of his dick.
He stroked in, and I bent forward, taking him deeper, the languid pace opening me until my body stopped fighting, stopped trying to push out and sucked in.
“Holy fuck, baby, your ass.”
I needed to be on the ground, and so I sank to my knees. Aaron followed, connected, his thighs plastered against mine before he pistoned inside me.
Fists clenched on the carpet, I took the pounding because I wanted it, too good to stop. When I felt the sizzling heat tighten my balls, rise from the base of my spine to my stomach, I whispered I was close.
“You’re not touching your cock.”
“Don’t”—I gasped—“have to.”
He bent over me, his fingers lacing with mine as he sucked between my shoulder blades, biting down as his driving rhythm, the forward and back, became only about being buried inside of me. He wanted to be in, and that was all.
I bit my lip hard so I wouldn’t scream and came on the ground under me, spurting thick and messy.
Aaron hammered me through my drowning orgasm and his own release seconds later. He spilled, hot and thick, and then collapsed across my back, replete and panting.
“Oh my God, I love you,” he groaned.
“That’s the sex talking,” I said as I tried to calm my racing heart.
“No,” he countered, lifting up and easing gently from my still-spasming channel. “That’s me telling you, you’re the man of my dreams.”
Luckily, his Phileas Fogg costume had lots of layers, so he took off his jacket, then the waistcoat, followed by the fancy shirt under that, and finally the sweaty T-shirt sticking to his torso, leaving on only an off-kilter silk scarf.
“You look completely debauched,” I teased.
“Oh, Mr. Pirate,” he said, leaning over to kiss me, “it’s all you. You, sir, look utterly ravished.”
“Is that hot?”
“Oh, hell yes,” he answered as he used the T-shirt to wipe my ass and the insides of my thighs and finally to mop up and then rub in the cum splattered on the floor.
“You ground it in?” I was horrified.
“Baby, they have to clean all the carpets in here after this event—the whole place, all right? Top to bottom. Let’s not worry about some jizz on this one little area.”
