CHAPTER 2 #5
Jayla bobbed her head with desperate, messy devotion, her tongue swirling wildly around the sensitive, flared rim of his massive head.
She used a mixture of her own slick fluids and heavy drool to coat every swollen vein of his shaft, swallowing him as deep as her throat would allow until he was throbbing, slick, and pulsing violently against her tongue.
After two minutes of relentless, wet oral worship, Drew dragged her up by her arms, lifting her effortlessly off her knees until her trembling, bare body was pressed flush against his chest.
"That is enough warm up," he murmured, his hands gripping her waist. "Turn around. Lean over the edge of the bed."
Jayla turned, placing her hands flat on the white sheets, bending at the waist so her hips were elevated near his chest level.
Drew stepped up behind her. He grabbed his wet, throbbing length, aligned the wide head with her gaped, wet entrance, and drove all the way back inside her in one long, relentless thrust.
"AH!" Jayla cried out, her head falling forward onto the mattress as the massive fullness occupied her core once again.
He resumed the hard, steady, punishing rhythm, his hands gripping her waist, his thumbs digging into the small dimples above her rear, as he drove her toward her fourth release of the night.
The room was filled with the sounds of pure passion—her hoarse, beautiful moans, his dirty, quiet words of encouragement, and the wet, heavy impact of their bodies joining over and over again in the warm shadow of the lamp light.
Drew worked her from behind until her legs completely gave out, her knees sliding down the side of the bed until she was resting her upper body on the mattress, her hips still held high by his broad hands.
He pulled out, flipped her onto her back one final time, and spread her legs wide across the bed.
He climbed over her, his massive chest dropping down until his full weight was resting gently against her front.
He drove his cock deep inside her, bottoming out until the head was locked against her back wall, and began a series of short, incredibly fast, hard thrusts aimed directly at her most sensitive inner threshold.
His thumb worked her swollen clit in fast, ruthless circles.
Jayla felt her fifth and final climax approaching like a tidal wave from deep within her ocean. It was not like the others; this one was pure, unadulterated sensation that consumed every nerve ending in her body.
"Drew! Drew! I am coming! I’m coming again! Oh God!"
Her whole body went completely rigid. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingernails digging deep into his shoulders, her dark eyes rolling back as her core clamped down on his massive girth in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms that seemed to go on forever.
The tight, crushing sensation of her fifth climax was the final trigger for Drew’s control.
His rhythm broke. He buried his massive shaft all the way to the root, his broad hips jerking forward with incredible force, and let out a deep, guttural roar that vibrated against her chest.
"Fuck, Jayla!" he growled, his whole body tensing as his release was triggered.
Deep within her core, Jayla felt the sudden, massive surge of his seed.
Hot, thick, heavy pulses of fluid shot from his head, coating her back wall in a scalding, relentless flood.
Pulse after pulse hit her deepest point, filling her completely, until she could feel the warm excess leaking out around the base of his thick shaft, pooling against her thighs.
They stayed locked together in total stillness for two long minutes.
The only sound in Room Sixty Three was the sound of their heavy, ragged breathing, their chests rising and falling together in a shared, exhaustion filled rhythm.
Drew kept his head buried in the curve of her neck, his lips pressing light, lingering kisses against her warm olive skin, while his massive length remained buried deep inside her cooling core.
Slowly, gently, Drew lifted his weight off her body, leaning back onto his knees.
As his thick shaft slowly pulled out of her stretched entrance, a heavy, hot rush of his seed followed it, spilling out over her inner thighs and pooling onto the crisp white sheets beneath her hips.
Jayla’s entrance remained gaped, open, and pink, the inner walls visible for several seconds before her exhausted muscles slowly attempted to close around the sudden emptiness.
Drew looked down at her, his face softened by a gentle, satisfied smile. He reached out, his thick fingers gently pushing a few stray strands of wet black hair away from her sticky forehead.
"You good, photographer?" he asked softly.
Jayla lay on her back, her body humming with a deep, delicious ache she had never known in her entire life. She looked up at him, her dark eyes shining with profound satisfaction, and managed a slow, dazed nod.
"I am better than good," she whispered, her voice rough and trembling. "I am completely transformed."
Drew stood up from the bed, his tall, bare frame magnificent in the dim light of the room. He walked over to the small bathroom, pulled two soft white towels off the rack, ran one under warm water, and returned to the bedside.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and gently began to wipe her body clean. He moved with surprising gentleness, wiping the slick from her inner thighs, cleaning her smooth, shaved mound, and dabbing away the excess release that had pooled beneath her hips.
Jayla watched him through half closed eyes, her heart aching with a sudden, unexpected sweetness. He had not just used her body; he had cared for her, held her, and treated her like something precious while completely dismantling her life.
"You need to get dressed, beautiful," Drew said softly, handing her the dry towel. "Take your time. Your legs are going to be a little shaky for a minute."
Jayla sat up slowly. The moment her feet touched the carpet, a fresh, warm trickle of his seed leaked down her inner thigh. A sharp, deep throb pulsed through her core, reminding her of every inch she had taken over the last hour.
She stood up. Her knees immediately buckled, and Drew’s broad hand caught her waist before she could fall, steadying her with quiet strength.
"Told you," he chuckled softly. "Take it easy."
Jayla gathered her clothes with trembling, slow hands.
Dressing felt almost surreal. Pulling her tight denim jeans back over her smooth, swollen hips was an exercise in slow torture, the denim pressing against her tender skin with every movement.
Every step she took caused another tiny, warm drop of his release to shift inside her, soaking into her lace underwear.
She strapped her leather camera bag back across her shoulder, checked her reflection in the small bathroom mirror, and smoothed down her black hair.
She looked different. Her dark eyes were bright, her lips were swollen and red, and her olive skin had a deep, radiant glow that no makeup could ever replicate.
She walked to the heavy red door. Drew stood beside it, wearing his gray sweatpants once more, his broad bare chest filling the narrow hallway space.
He unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, letting the cool, damp night air wash into the hot room.
Jayla stepped out onto the concrete walkway. The neon sign of THE RED MOTEL buzzed quietly above the parking lot, casting a flickering red light over her Jeep parked in the dark corner.
She turned to face him one last time.
Drew leaned down, pressing a quiet, warm kiss against her olive cheek, his short stubble rasping softly against her skin.
"Text me when you get home safely," he murmured near her ear, his dark voice a gentle promise in the night. "And remember what I said, Jayla... three fingers was practice. Next time, we go for even more."
Jayla felt a fresh wave of heat shoot through her core at his words. She looked up into his eyes, offered a quiet, brilliant smile, and turned to walk down the walkway.
Every step across the cracked asphalt was a slow, deliberate effort. Her inner thighs were sore, her core was throbbing with a deep, glorious ache, and the warm evidence of Mr. Girth continued to leak down her legs with every movement she made.
She reached her Jeep, unlocked the door, and climbed into the driver's seat.
She did not start the engine immediately. She sat in the dark cabin, resting her forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel, breathing in the lingering scent of sandalwood, clean skin, and passion that clung to her clothes and skin.
She turned the key, and the Jeep’s engine roared to life with a deep, throaty purr that vibrated straight through the floorboards and up her trembling thighs.
Jayla pulled out of the shadows of the motel lot, merging into the cool, dark vein of the empty freeway toward Pine Street. Outside her window, the city melted into an intoxicating blur of molten gold and bruised crimson, a silent light show reflecting off the slick curve of her hood.
Somewhere ahead, tucked inside their quiet craftsman house, Gray was sleeping soundly beneath the crisp, sterile sheets of their orderly life—completely oblivious to the beautiful disaster she had become, and the decadent sin currently dripping down her skin.
Somewhere behind, locked in Room Sixty-Three, the heavy amber light still held the musky, bittersweet scent of her absolute surrender, marked into the very air.
Jayla pressed her knees tightly together, holding in the warm, slow slickness pooling between her thighs. Her heart hammered a wild, exquisite rhythm against her ribs, her body deliciously wrecked and beautifully remade, already aching for the exact moment she could slip back into the dark.