6. Foster #2
Without any words, she makes one more adjustment to bring her body close to me, her lips kiss softly below my chest, and she searches for praise as her light kisses stream down my stomach.
She holds onto my hip with one hand, and her other hand squeezes around my cock for a few tugs.
I hiss a breath when I bring my tip to meet her mouth.
My cock is so hard; it gravitates to her waiting mouth, and her tongue licks around my shaft and tip.
“Your mouth feels good.”
The compliment causes her to give more by letting me go deeper inside her, and she sucks. My fingers comb through her hair, clearing her face, and I hold her hair behind her head as I fuck her mouth harder. She’s salivating, and it sounds like a struggle, but she keeps up the pace.
“Fuck, Sutton.” My eyes hood close as my head tips back, but I continue to guide her. Her eyes peer up and seek approval. “Such a good girl, Sutton. Taking my cock. Filling your mouth full. It’s making you even wetter. I’ll feel your pussy, and you’re even more soaking.”
She nods, her mouth still stuffed, and her voice muffled.
“Let me hear you say it.”
I pull her off me, and her mouth is swollen and her breathing is ragged. “I’m soaking for you. I want you to fuck me,” she begs.
A smirk curls on the corner of my mouth. “On all fours. Let me see your ass.”
She gets into position as I grab a condom, and she glances over her shoulder to check. “I’m not on birth control, so you will need a lot of those tonight.”
“Don’t worry.”
Once in position, my palm then presses against the base of her spine to encourage her to lean forward and her ass to rise.
I slide my fingers between her legs and feel her heated arousal.
She’s already clawing the sheets, and then with no warning, my tip circles her entrance before plunging in, and I spank her in unison.
She moans as I dig deeper inside of her.
In blunt movements, her tits jingle, and the little vixen grinds against my cock, wanting to milk me to an orgasm.
Squaring her hips with my hands firmly in place, she throws me a look over her shoulder, watching me pound into her.
“You like that, sweetheart? Watching me use your body?” I grit out.
Her lips part open in an O shape. Probably because of the way I talk to her, but there is something about her, and I let go with new hesitation.
“Don’t stop.”
A sheen of sweat begins to release as I continue to fuck her hard.
Her moans and my groans could probably be heard down the hall.
“So fucking good,” she mumbles as she presses the side of her face against the duvet.
When we both finally roar an orgasm, I’m not sure either one of us felt as though we still had our feet on this planet.
And that’s a pretty damn good way to spend the night.
We laugh as she digs a spoon into the tiramisu, still in its foil tin, both of us sprawled on my sofa. Her bare feet are tucked beneath her, arm draped over the backrest. My button-down shirt hangs perfectly on her—easy access, sure, but honestly, it looks like it was made for her.
“Thank you for pulling strings. This is a perfect addition to New Year’s.” She begins to suck the spoon, and it is a reminder of how talented her mouth can be.
I dig into a bite of coconut cream pie. We needed dessert options, so I ordered late-night Italian and snagged the last pie from the all-night diner around the corner. It’s New Year’s Eve—money opens doors.
For the past hour, conversation has flowed effortlessly—no awkward pauses, no need to think about what comes next.
“We also need replenishments,” I point out.
“That’s right. You are going to hold me captive here.”
“Nah, if I were to do that, then the handcuffs would have already been out.”
She laughs, sets down the dessert on the side table, and swaps it for the bottle of champagne I opened earlier. There hasn’t been any need to impress, only let go, and that’s why we ditched glasses and have been slowly drinking straight from the bottle.
Sutton lifts the bottle to toast while I set down my box of pie. “To your random bottle of champagne from somebody who was trying to get in your good books, and you just left it all alone in your fridge long ago.” It floats out of her mouth before she takes a sip, then hands me the champagne.
“It was a prize from a raffle at some charity event. Haven’t had a need to open it. Like I say, my place is… mine. Other than the occasional guys' night here, it’s a place where I decompress.”
“Sounds lonely,” she says simply.
“Nah. I’m doing fine.” I drink from the bottle.
“I get it. I do. I follow my routine, and having an apartment is a piece of that. Kind of like wheels turning, but I’m not a hundred percent sure where it’s leading or when. I mean, there are certain life events that adults think about, but I have time.”
“You do.” I sound absentminded.
Me? There are people who believe I have to check off certain milestones sooner rather than later.