（Untitled） #2
I leaned in closer, letting my breath ghost over the head of his cock as his hand kept working it.
“Show me how you did it on the bus,” I murmured, lips brushing the piercing. “When you’d watch me ride that dildo and imagine it was your cock splitting me open.”
His stroke faltered for a second, then sped up, fist flying faster. A guttural sound tore from his throat. “Every fucking night. I’d stroke it raw, thinking about your tight little throat taking me. Your pussy dripping down my balls…”
“Naughty boy,” I grinned.
Milo’s grey eyes were locked on me.
I turned on the selfie mode on the phone and wedged it between the keys of the piano, before I settled back down and pulled on the ribbon that held together the breast part of my dress. I wasn’t wearing a bra so the moment the lacing pulled apart — my breasts spilled out.
His eyes were locked on my chest now. Mine, however, was on that shiny bead of pre-cum gathering at the slit of his cock. I reached over to swipe it with my finger before bringing said finger to my nipple.
The pre-cum was warm, slick, and slightly sticky, coating my fingertip like liquid silk.
I circled it slowly over the tight peak, spreading the glossy trail until my nipple gleamed.
The cool AC air kissed the wet skin, making it pebble even harder, sending a sharp little jolt straight down to my clit.
Milo’s stroking faltered again. His chest heaved, the ink across his pecs shifting with every ragged breath.
I ran my nails up and down his thighs and watched that delicious V-cut flexing as his hips jerked up into his fist.
“What feels better, your hand or my pussy?” I asked him.
"That a trick question?"
I smirked, getting up and onto his lap, my knees on either side of him on the bench. I lifted the skirt of the dress and pulled my thong to the side. The phone was still recording from the piano, capturing me over his shoulder.
“Thought you were still sore,” he commented.
“I am,” I admitted, as his hands clamped onto my hips. I grinned, running my fingers into his hair. “How long are you gonna last, rockstar? A minute, maybe two?”
Milo’s eyes flashed with a mix of amusement. His fingers dug into my hips, and I knew I’d wear bruises tomorrow — little purple petals blooming under my skin. “Keep talking shit, and you’ll find out.”
I reached between us, wrapping my hand around his shaft. God, he was so fucking hard. I lined him up, rubbing the pierced head up and down myself and moaned, my eyes closing shut. I was, indeed, still sore from yesterday, but he felt too good, so I sank down, slowly.
“You are here for my pleasure,” I told him, tugging at his hair. “Don’t you dare come before me.”
“You’re asking for a lot, doll,” he muttered against my collarbone. His hips rolled up, pushing deeper.
Behind me, the piano keys chimed out random notes as Milo’s back pressed against them as I started moving against him.
“Faster,” he demanded.
“No.” I kept the pace torturously slow, rising until just the tip remained inside me, then sinking back down inch by inch. “I said this is for my pleasure.”
His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his neck. “Mary—”
“I said no.” I leaned forward, letting my breasts press against his chest, my lips brushing his ear. “Be a good boy and let me use you.”
His hands flexed on my hips, fingers digging in harder. I could feel every muscle in his body coiled tight, straining for control. The piercing dragged against my walls with every slow rise and fall.
“You’re fucking evil,” he breathed.
“Mm-hmm.” I bit his earlobe, then his jaw, feeling the stubble scratch my lips. Behind us, another discordant chord rang out as his shoulders pressed harder into the keys. The phone was still recording — capturing every second.
“When you’ll be fucking your groupies, you better remember who owns you, rockstar.”
His whole body went rigid beneath me. “What?”
I kept moving, kept that agonizing pace. “Oh, don’t play dumb. Tour life. Different city, different girl.” I rolled my hips in a slow circle, feeling him throb inside me. “Dahlia told me all about it over brunch.”
“Mary—” His voice was strained, caught between anger and desperation. “I’m not — fuck — I’m not doing that anymore.”
“Sure you’re not.” I rose up again, almost letting him slip out, then sank back down with excruciating slowness. The piercing hit something deep that made my toes curl. “That’s why you tattooed my name on your arm, right? So the other girls know whose property they’re borrowing?”
His eyes flashed dangerously. “You think I’d fuck around on you?”
“I think you’re a rockstar who’s used to getting whatever he wants.” I leaned back, arching my spine, giving the camera a better angle. My breasts bounced with each movement. “And I think you need to be reminded that this—” I clenched around him, “—is mine.”
Milo’s control finally snapped. His hands slid from my hips to my ass.
In one swift motion, he stood up from the bench, still buried inside me.
I wrapped my legs around his waist on instinct, arms flying around his neck as the world tilted.
My back hit the piano, and a barrage of sounds exploded from the wooden body.
The phone tumbled somewhere to the side, still recording, catching us from a new angle.
“Told you,” he growled against my neck, his hips snapping forward. “This pussy’s mine. These tits are mine.” His hand came up to squeeze my breast roughly, thumb brushing the nipple. “Every fucking inch of you belongs to me.”
The piano groaned under my weight as he pounded into me, each thrust sending vibrations through the polished wood. Sheet music fluttered to the floor. My shoulder knocked against the lid.
“Fuck,” he cursed.
My eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. A minute and a half.
“Yes, baby, just like that,” I moaned, nails raking down his back. “I can feel you… You’re so close.”
“Not yet,” he gritted out, sweat dripping down his temple. But I felt it — felt him twitching inside me, felt how his rhythm was getting sloppy, desperate.
I clenched around him deliberately, muscles squeezing that thick shaft, and his whole body shuddered. “Come for me,” I whispered against his ear. “Fill me up like a good little slut…”
His hips stuttered, and I felt the hot pulse of him emptying inside me, his groan reverberating through both our chests. The piano sang out one final odd note as his weight pressed me harder into the keys.
I kissed his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Good boy.”
He laughed breathlessly, still buried inside me, forehead resting against mine. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”
“Probably.” I traced the fresh ink of my name on his bicep with one finger. “But at least you’ll die happy.”
“Touché.” He pulled back enough to look at me, grey eyes searching my face. Something shifted there — something raw and unguarded. “I meant what I said. I’m not fucking around on you. Not on tour, not ever.”
“Milo—”
“I’m serious.” His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Ain’t no one for me but you.”
I smiled, turning my head to kiss his palm. “Promise?”
“I promise.”