15. Nero
15
NERO
I eat Miranda’s delectable cunt until she screams my name twice and not an ounce of the numerous mistakes Swamp Dick made can be seen in her eyes. Then I step back.
I’m meant to be fucking her confidence to a record-breaking high, not making her bedridden.
Though the thought of her helpless and in bed for a week sounds mighty enticing right now. Miranda’s pussy tastes like heaven. It’s a meal I could eat day in and day out until the day I die, and I’d never complain.
Only a fool would grow tired of perfection.
As I drag a hand across my beard, making sure the wiry strands covering my jaw absorb her scent, I rake my eyes down Miranda’s body.
We were so impatient I’m shocked the only article of clothing left on are my trousers, which are huddled around my ankles.
Other than that, we’re stark naked, and the view is fucking enticing.
She’s so damn beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed, her nipples are standing to attention, and although her pussy lips are red and chafed from my beard sanding the sensitive skin, they’re drizzling with evidence of multiple arousals and make me hard as fuck.
The need to fuck claws at me. I want to take her hard and fast like when she was splayed over her kitchen counter, being pounded so ruefully her tits and ass clapped in euphoria. But for now, I can’t. Miranda needs to see what she does to me. She needs to feel it.
She also needs to get that dweeb out of her head, and I know exactly how to encourage that.
I roll my thumb over her clit, keeping it as firm as my cock, while hooking my ankle around the leg of a chair beneath a nook at the side of the kitchen and dragging it in front of me.
Miranda’s house has an old-school design, with part of the kitchen counter lowered to include a writing nook, but the fixtures and furniture are modern—excluding the piece I’ve selected.
Miranda watches me under hooded lids when I take a seat before notching up my chin, inviting her to join me.
She seems excited—for half a second.
“I’m not sure that chair was designed for two.”
My voice is full of lust when I ask, “Afraid it’ll break?”
When she nods, a smile stretches across my face.
She isn’t distraught at the thought of her furniture being broken.
She’s excited.
I learn why when she says, “That’s Roy’s favorite chair. He inherited it from his mother. She isn’t dead. She just knows how much I hate that chair. I can’t believe I missed it during my purge of his belongings.”
I already knew Mrs. Martin is a steaming pile of shit—you can’t raise a turd, shove a stick up its ass, and then call it a corn dog—but the disgust in Miranda’s eyes exposes I still have a lot to learn about the Martins.
I’ll start with his mother, once I’ve broken her god-ugly chair.