Marina #2
"God, you're so fucking bad. Look what you did to me," he says. The second the passenger door clicks shut behind me, Stepan's hands are everywhere—gripping my hips, yanking me down harder onto his lap so his cock presses right against the damp cotton between my thighs.
"You're killing me," he mutters against my mouth before he kisses me. It's hungry and messy, tongue sliding in like he's been starving for it. I moan into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan back. It's dizzying.
I rock against him instinctively, the friction of his bare length rubbing along my covered slit making heat spike low in my belly. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the dress, teasing but not quite grabbing. I arch into it, anyway, chasing more.
"Do you feel how hard I am?" he breathes against my lips, flexing his hips so his head nudges right where I'm aching. "That's what those pictures did. I've been stroking myself waiting for you, staring at your tits, your ass... fuck, Marina."
My cheeks burn hotter. "You liked them?"
"Liked?" He laughs and it's almost a growl. "I almost came just from the one of your ass bent over. Had to stop touching myself so I wouldn't finish." His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the skin just under my ear. "I wanted to save it all for you."
I whimper, grinding down harder. My dress will be totally wrinkled, but this man is so intoxicating, I can't stop myself.
His dick slides over the soaked fabric every time I roll my hips.
One of his hands finally cups my breast, squeezing me and I wince.
It's more sensitive than normal, almost painful, but I want more of it, more of him.
"God, yes," I gasp, tipping my head back. "Touch me there—harder."
He pinches a nipple just enough to make me jolt, then soothes it with a slow rub that has me trembling. His other hand slips under my dress, palm flat against my lower back, urging me to keep moving. So I do, shamelessly rubbing down his length, panties dragging over every ridge.
"You're dripping through these," he says, fingers dipping between us to trace the soaked seam of fabric.
He presses two fingertips there, rubbing circles over my clit outside the cotton, and my thighs shake around his hips.
"So fucking wet for me. You get this worked up just sending me those dirty pictures? "
"Yes," I admit on a shaky breath. I'm so embarrassed, but he makes me feel more at ease.
"Imagine how wet you'd be if you were actually naked.
Want to send me pictures of that pretty pussy?
" he asks as his fingers hook the edge of my panties and tug them aside, exposing me.
Cool air hits my slick folds for half a second before his cock is right there, his blunt head slipping through my wetness, gliding, teasing.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he groans. "Gonna feel so good sliding in."
I brace my hands on his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt. "Then do it. Please."
He notches himself at my entrance, holds my gaze for one burning second, then thrusts up—steady, deep, filling me in one long glide that steals my breath. My mouth falls open on a silent cry, he's thick enough that I feel every inch stretching me, hot and perfect.
"Christ, Marina," he hisses through his teeth. "So tight around me. Like you were made for this."
I clench on him instinctively and he curses again, hands clamping my ass to hold me down while he grinds up, stirring himself inside me.
The angle has him hitting that spot that makes sparks shoot behind my eyes.
I start moving, lifting and dropping, riding him with the dress hiked around my waist, panties shoved to the side.
His mouth crashes back to mine, swallowing every little sound I make. One hand stays on my ass, guiding the rhythm, the other slips between us again, fingers finding my clit and rubbing fast, wet circles that match the way I'm bouncing on him.
"Like that?" he murmurs against my lips. "Want you to come all over my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me when you fall apart."
The words tip me closer. My thighs burn from the effort but I don't care—I need more, faster. He meets every downward roll with a sharp thrust, driving deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the closed car.
"Stepan—" My nails rake down his chest. "I'm close—fuck, don't stop—"
"Come for me," he growls. "Let me feel it. Come on this dick like the bad girl you are."
The pressure snaps. I shatter around him, pulsing hard, inner walls fluttering and gripping as waves crash through me. My forehead drops to his shoulder, a broken moan spilling out while he keeps fucking up into me through it, drawing it out until I'm shaking and gasping.
He doesn't let up. His fingers stay on my clit, lighter now but still circling, keeping the aftershocks rolling. "One more," he says, voice wrecked. "I want you coming again when I fill you up."
I whine, oversensitive but already building again, the drag of him inside me too good to stop. I kiss him desperately, biting his lower lip as I continue to grind on him. My hips snap faster, chasing that second peak while he starts losing some of his control.
"God, you're perfect," he pants. "God, I'm gonna fill that tiny little pussy with my seed and make you come so hard, you milk me."
The filthy promise shoves me over again. I come harder this time, groaning against his mouth as my whole body locks up, clenching rhythmically around his cock. He groans like it hurts, hips jerking unevenly, but I keep jolting and twitching, riding him.
"Fuck, Marina." He growls as he pistons in and out of me, spilling deep in thick spurts that I feel with every twitch. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me flush against him while he empties himself and then slows.
I feel like I may cry, and not because I'm embarrassed or upset with him. It's a strange wave of emotion that consumes me until I bury my face in his neck and grit my teeth to stop it.
"Hey, shh. You okay?" Stepan's hands smooth up and down my back and I want so desperately to hold onto this feeling of closeness.
He's still hard, still buried in me, but I know I can't keep him.
As much as I want what he can give me, I have a duty to perform.
It just makes it harder knowing love is so close—real love. And I can't do anything about it.
"Stepan," I whimper, feeling on the verge of tears. My tits hurt, I'm too tired, and I do not want to go back into that shop and pick wedding veils or shoes.
"I'm here, baby... Tell me what's wrong. I didn't hurt you, did I?"