“Or …” I say, caressing the clothed shaft of his cock with the back of my hand.
“I like ‘or,’” he says, and kisses me.
His hand tickles the skin of my lower back, sliding a finger down the crack of my ass. His lips become
more eager until he’s kissing me as if his life depended on it. He flips me over onto my back and
practically tears my bra and panties off. So it’s going to be like that, I think with sudden excitement.
Making slow, passionate love is wonderful. The orgasms are explosive. But there is something about
when he fucks me like a mad person that drives me crazy.
I frantically peel his boxers off of him, springing loose his gorgeous cock.
He reaches between us, rolling my clit in his fingers. I moan into his open mouth, encouraging him. His
fingers dip into my waiting wet hole. The sticky sound of his fingers slipping in and out of me only
seems to make him more frantic, until soon his hand is slapping against me fast and furious, the
muscles in his arm taut and flexing. I’m howling as my first orgasm rushes me. The sound of my voice
can probably be heard by the entire neighborhood but neither of us cares. Once they see all those cans
tied to the truck out front, they’ll understand.
He doesn’t give me time to come down from the first orgasm. Instead he dives face first between my
legs. It’s so wet down there, but that doesn’t stop him from devouring every drop of my juices. He’s a
fiend for it, delving his tongue in and out, straining to reach more. He licks my asshole too. That’s
always a startling feeling and I’m still not used to it. Once the initial shock of it wears off, I let myself slip
into the pleasure of the feelings he’s giving me. He’s so thorough, spending as much time down there
as needed to get me to the peak of my arousal. Never in a hurry.
Finally, when I can’t take anymore, I say, “Fuck me.”
“As you wish,” he says. He eagerly slips his cock into me. No hesitation, no teasing with just the head
as he sometimes does. It’s just full-force penetration. I gasp as he slams into me. With all of his force,
he drills into me, the headboard hitting the wall so hard it sounds as though it might punch right through
the drywall. Neither of us cares, though. Maybe we will in the morning, but right now it just feels so
fucking amazing, neither of us are willing to slow it down.
Grasping his ass cheeks, they flex beneath my hand. My legs are up in the air, arms folded behind my
knees to lift my ass higher, getting myself in the best possible position so that he can thrust deeper
inside of me. Hard sex with Deacon is always a balancing act between pain and pleasure.
In the beginning, when he would fuck me hard like he’s doing now, there was always a fear in the
recesses of my mind of bodily harm. He’s so big I was afraid he might cause some internal damage.
But now my body is used to it and I know I can take it, and so those little tendrils of pain only add to the
excitement.
“I love that fucking pussy,” he says. Each word lands on a thrust so that there’s a pause between each
one. “Come for me baby, I want to make you feel good.”
Normally I participate in the dirty banter, but I’m right on the cusp of an orgasm. My words don’t work.
Instead I scream, “Oh fuck!”
We must’ve reached our peak at the same time, because he lets out a roar and starts fucking me so
hard the entire room blurs. And then he stops, his cock twitching inside of me as he releases his load.
When he pulls out of me, our combined juices run down my ass, leaving a wet spot on the bed. Both of
us are too out of breath to speak. Instead we curl up together and soon fall asleep.
I’m nervous as we walk into the courthouse. My entire body is shaking as we go through the metal
detector. Sam hired the best lawyer middle-class money could buy. It was his wedding gift to us.
Deacon has chewed his nails until there’s hardly anything left of them. Neither of us says anything as
we enter the courtroom. We just clutch each other’s hands and hold on for dear life. My mom comes in
with us, holding Bailey. We are ready for the fight of our lives.
Karen’s lawyer is sitting on the bench, holding his cellphone and texting. He keeps glancing at us and
our lawyer. He looks sleazy. Just the type of person someone like Karen would hire. The judge enters
the room. We all rise. Then eventually we’re given permission to sit.
Still no Karen. All the dread I’ve been feeling for the past could of weeks, shifts into something else.
Not quite relief yet, because this isn’t over. Not yet. But no Karen has to be a good sign, right?
“Where’s your client, Mr. Montgomery?” the judge says to Karen’s lawyer.
“I’m afraid she’s not here.”
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