The Parent Trap

by Jasinda Wilder

  My breath is hoarse and ragged through my teeth.

  Helplessly, I begin to push into her slowly stroking fist.

  I feel the edge approaching.

  It’s a titanic wave of convulsive, explosive pressure.

  Hold back, hold back, hold back—notyetnotyetnotyet…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Delia

  Greedy, greedy, greedy.

  Lost in lust, I want nothing but him. Nothing but Thai’s fat cock in my hands, his hard body tensed and shaking, his narrow hips flexing helplessly as I torture him to orgasm. His wide, tapering upper body is heaving with gasping breaths.

  He’s mine—under my spell. I’ve never felt such…power, over anyone. I love it.

  I don’t know who I am, right now. I don’t do this; lights off, penetrate, finish, done. That’s how it usually goes in my life.

  Not this.

  This is erotic.

  Daring.

  Wild.

  Full daylight, the sun setting behind Thai in a blaze of reddening orange brilliance, staining the once-silver sea salmon and crimson and a thousand hues in between.

  His body is a god’s.

  His lats are wide and powerful, shoulders round and thick. Arms are columns of carved ivory, abs shredded down to blocks of titanium. Narrow hips, an ass like a pair of cannonballs, hard and round and taut. Thighs like tree trunks. He’s got a scrim of hair on his chest and a thicker trail on his belly from navel to groin.

  And god, his cock.

  It’s a thing of beauty, glorious and impossible. Even in the porn I watch to get myself off, I’ve never seen anything so perfect. Touching it, even just being allowed to look at it is a privilege. Golden brown flesh wrapped tight around thick veins, so thick and so wide I can barely fit my fingers around him in a circle. The head is broad and lighter shade, almost pink, fat and bulbous and weeping a clear, trickling tear at my touch. His balls are heavy and taut. He’s trimmed but not shaved, a thatch of hair slightly darker than anywhere else.

  I’m living in this moment—it’s all there is. There will be mental and emotional hell to pay, later. But for now? Just this.

  Just Thai.

  Just his snarling grunts, his moans, his breathless gasps.

  All I want is to touch and grip and stroke him and watch his belly tighten concave as his hips drive forward. All I want is to feel him in my hands, feel his balls tense and pulse, feel his cock throb. All I want is to make him feel good. All I want is to watch him come from my touch. To make him explode, to know I can do that to him.

  All I want is this moment. Nothing more. Nothing else. No thoughts, no feelings but this wild lust for this man’s body, for his pleasure.

  Now, he’s desperate. I feel it in him.

  It’s in his eyes. It’s written in every line of his tense, taut body. It’s in the way he holds utterly still, barely daring to even breathe.

  As if he’s…almost as if he’s scared I’ll stop. That I’ll take away my touch and leave him begging.

  Could I make him beg? The great Thai Bristow, begging me to let him come.

  It’s a tempting thought.

  But for this moment, I’m too greedy to wait.

  I’ve never in my life wanted anything so bad as to watch that fat pink tip spurt his seed all over my hands, and to hear him groan in release.

  I could almost come myself, just thinking about it.

  God, it’ll be so beautiful.

  Instead of hurrying him to it, I torture us both, slowing my touch until my hand is barely sliding down, barely grazing upward. Barely twisting around his head before slowly sliding back down. My other hand holds his balls—as weird as they are, objectively speaking, I’m so delirious with maniacal lust for all things Thai that I find his simply beautiful, and I want to pet them, caress them, hold them, cradle them with as much wonder and appreciation as I have for his cock.

  He groans, a long low rumble in his chest, and his hips flex. Once, hard, his belly tucking in, hips pushing forward, cock driving up, chest lifting as his chin drops. Eyes heavy lidded, hooded. Teeth bared in an animal rictus, lip curled in a savage snarl.

  God, he’s beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and fierce, expressive eyes which burn like green fire, all the gray gone now, scorched away by the ferocity of his ecstasy. His hair is wet and pasted back over his scalp, hanging around his jaw and over his ears, sticking to his skin, messy and dripping and somehow still perfect.

  My gaze drops back to his cock, the real focus of my attention—his gorgeous face was just a distraction.

  Now, his movements are compulsory, need driving him to thrust.

  God, yes.

  Yes.

  Give it to me.

  Am I saying this out loud? I sure as hell hope not.

  How embarrassing would that be? I barely allow myself to whimper even when coming on my own, alone in my locked bedroom, in my locked house, with the lights off and the blinds drawn. During sex? I’m almost totally silent. I sure as shit never talk.

  But Thai just does something to me. His magnetic sexual sorcery twists me in knots and erases my inhibitions and ravages my self-consciousness into nothing—makes me wild and crazed with a need I do not recognize in myself.

  I want to make this last forever, but I can’t delay my gratification any longer.

  His breathing is sharp and short, each breath a grunt as he drives his pulsing cock into my touch.

  More.

  Give it to me.

  Give it to me.

  My mouth is open, jaw dropped and brows furrowed as I watch my hand stroke him—still slowly, so, so slowly.

  I have to look at him, again. Meet his eyes.

  Our gazes lock, and I’m drawn in. I’m hypnotized. Green fury, mad desire. Desperation. Disbelief. Lust. Wonder. Attraction. Need—for me.

  “Thai…” I breathe.

  I feel a moment of terror that speaking will break this spell over us, but the reverse is true. My whisper of his name only makes him wilder, makes his thrusts harder, faster.

  He’s trying to hold back, I can tell. Trying to restrain his thrusts. Make it last, same as me. Scared of breaking the spell, same as me.

  I can no longer keep it back, no longer keep my caressing strokes of his thick beautiful cock slow.

  Both hands, now.

  One fist atop the other, and still I can’t contain all of him. He sprouts up over my top fist, pink head straining and bursting free of my squeezing hand.

  He lifts, thrusts.

  I lean forward, and what comes over me, I don’t know, but I press my lips to his ear, nibble his earlobe. Whisper, in a sultry, aroused, erotic voice I don’t recognize as mine: “Be still.” I plunge my fists down his length. “Let me. Just hold still…let me do it all.”

  His groan is one of equal parts disbelief and relief and crazed, mad need.

  I nibble his earlobe and kiss the shell and breathe on his ear, and then I’m kissing his jawline and throat and neck and then I’m kissing his cheekbone and eyebrow and upper lip and then I’m taking his mouth with mine and kissing him with a whimpering desperation and ravenous fury.

  But I can’t sustain the kiss—I need to watch. I need to see the moment he explodes.

  He’s panting raggedly and his hips are flexing slightly, back and forth—it’s as still as he’s capable of holding.

  Faster, then. I plunge my fists on him, down around his thick throbbing shaft faster and faster, and I know I’m ruined for all other men, all other cocks, all other bodies. He’s just too perfect, and this is a wet dream come true, my wildest sexual fantasy come true—my secret fantasy, the ones which once felt so deviant and perverse and impossible, made real, with the last man on earth I’d ever have even dared imagine.

  His breathing is an impossibly fast pant, as if he’s sprinting the hundred-meter dash. Wild gasps. As I drive my touch faster, his hips pulse forward in time with my downstrokes. Faster and faster, until my forearm and wrist nearly ache with the
speed of it.

  My god, how long can he last? How long have we been here, in the ocean, like this? I don’t know, but it feels like an eternity, a glorious moment stretched out into years.

  Don’t end, please god don’t be over too soon.

  My breasts ache, tight nipples like buds of diamond, begging for his mouth. My pussy is drenched, slit clenching around nothing. Arousal slams through me in waves—need, raging like a tsunami.

  One single touch and I’d come with him.

  My thighs tremble against each other.

  My tits ache as they shake wildly, almost painfully, as my hands blur on his cock.

  “Come,” I whisper. It’s a command.

  Thai obeys.

  I gasp, an aroused, breathy, whimper as I feel it begin in him. He, for his part, snarls, and then the snarl becomes a low moan, and then the low moan becomes the roar of a maddened, feral beast. He cannot withstand the need any longer, cannot hold out any longer, cannot be still another moment.

  His hands, up till now fisted at his sides, reach for me as he lets go. One knots in my hair at the nape of my neck, gripping my wet tangled hair in a death grip that somehow doesn’t even tug on my scalp; the other hand goes to my hip, fingers clawed into the flesh, gripping hard.

  Now, god yes, now.

  I slow my touch.

  Reverse the grip of one hand, cradling his balls against his shaft while with my other hand I caress him slowly with one tight circle of my finger and thumb. He pulses in the ring of my fingers, sack tightening in my palm.

  “Oh fuck!” His voice is ragged and growling.

  He comes.

  It’s a spurting detonation of cum, and it spills over my hands, coats my fingers. Another jet leaves him, this one rocketing hard enough to splash against my stomach—and still he’s not done. I stroke him, gentling my touch.

  “More,” I murmur.

  God, who am I? Who is this wanton thing speaking with my voice, this greedy creature, this slavering, sensual siren with my body, my voice?

  Slow touches, petting his tip and tracing his length with a tickling fingernail, the other clutching him at the root and squeezing and fluttering quick shallow pumps. His body is wracked with jerking shivers, he’s growling wordlessly, hips heaving.

  Cum drools out of his tip, over my fingers. Again, and again.

  So…much…cum.

  My fingers are wet with it, the sticky thick wet warm seed drenching my fingers in a viscous sheen. The burst that splattered on my stomach drips downward—and then a wave sloshes up suddenly, and the receding riptide of it washes my belly clean and scours my hands clean.

  I want to touch him like this for always. I almost wish the waves hadn’t washed his cum off me—I liked the sticky wetness on me, liked knowing I’d done that to him, drawn it out of him. I like seeing him faint and swaying, liked hearing him groan. He dips at the knees as I continue caressing him, and still more white cream seeps out of him, little dribbles which I smear with my thumb.

  I’m shaking.

  Trembling all over with my own need.

  Will he see it?

  What happens now?

  His finger touches my chin, and I tilt my face up to meet his eyes, and I know this is not going to be easy to get past—this wasn’t a lapse in judgment, a frantic moment of errant weakness, like in my house last week.

  This is something else. Something more.

  This was just the tip of the iceberg.

  His eyes are still wild. Hooded with weak-kneed post-orgasmic bliss. Locked on mine and feral.

  “Thai?” I whisper. It’s a question which means what now, what’s next, what do I do, what are you going to do now…

  He reaches for me, and I find out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Matthais

  That was the single most intense orgasm of my life.

  For a woman who I had pegged as a dead fish lover, she was…sensual, and erotic. She knew exactly what she wanted and took it from me. No matter how good it felt for me, what she just did to me was for her.

  She wanted that. She wanted to touch me. To feel me. To make me come. To watch me come.

  And now that she’s gotten that, and I’m finished, she’s starting to think—starting to feel. The what-ifs and what’s next are bubbling up. The realization that she’s doing this with me is going to hit and she’s going to panic.

  And I need to watch her come before that happens. I need to feel her come on my fingers.

  I grip her by the shoulders and spin her around, walk forward so her sex is clear of the waves. Yank her backward against me, my front to her back. Nestling my subsiding cock between the soft silkiness of her ass cheeks, I slink one arm around her torso and hold her against me. Clutch her breast in my hand and feel the hard pink tips of her nipple against my palm, then tweak it with a thumb as if I’m strumming a guitar string, until she whimpers. God, she’s responsive. So sensitive, especially her nipples. With my other hand, I delve my touch lower and lower, scraping my flattened hand against her belly and over her pubis and the scratchy thin layer of trimmed pubic hair, black as night and tightly curled and beautiful, in a natural wedge shape pointing down to the heaven-land of her tight sex. Her lips are swollen, the nub of her clit prominent.

  I kiss her ear, breathe on it. Nip her earlobe. Play with one breast, then the other, toying with and flicking her nipples until she’s gasping with it, and then cupping the weight of one breast, then the other. Meanwhile, I touch a single fingertip to her clit. She whimpers at the lightest of touches.

  “You’re gonna come so fast, aren’t you, Delia?” I murmur.

  Her head nods sloppily, as if drunk. “Yeah, yeah—ohhh, ohhh god, oh god ohhhhhh god.”

  I want her voice. I want her words. I want her to scream. I want her to collapse against me and beg me to stop, to let her stop coming.

  I slide two fingers inside her tight channel—and if I needed any further evidence that she was turned by what she’d done to me, her wetness was all the proof I would need. She’s drenched. Slick and squelching as I pierce her with my fingers, delving in with my middle and index finger, curling to scrape my touch against her inside where I discovered she likes it best—high, deep inside against her inner front wall. She’s already shaking, and her knees give out until she sags into my touch, held up almost entirely by my hand on her breasts and the fingers inside her. Plunge my touch hard and fast inside her, against her, rubbing my palm against her taut clit.

  She whines, a high tight noise in the back of her throat, and her head hangs backward on my shoulder, and she gives in fully to letting me hold her up, spearing herself hard on my fingers. Faster, and faster, and she’s screaming now, thrashing, hips wild against my hand, on my fingers.

  She comes apart with a shrill, deafening scream, wordless and breathless at the end—when she runs out of breath, she sucks in another lungful of salt air and then instead of screaming again, she growls, and holy fuck is that savage growling snarl the most erotic, hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire goddamn sinful life.

  I feel something spurt against my palm, and the long low growl breaks apart into a delirious gasp, a disbelieving whimper.

  I don’t allow her to stop.

  I withdraw my fingers and smear her essence onto her clit and whirl my two sticky fingertips against her sex, faster and faster, but still a light touch.

  She thought she was done.

  Her second orgasm takes her by surprise, rips through her with sudden bashing ferocity. “Ohhhhhh ffffff-fuckfuckfuckfuck,” she growls, “oh god ohh fuck, Thai—what are you doing to me?”

  It’s over as fast as it hits her, and now despite the cold water and cooling air, she’s coated in a sheen of sweat, and she’s gasping breathlessly and whimpering, trembling.

  “Holy shit, Thai.”

  I keep touching, greedy for one more. Her knees give out spastically, and she grabs my hand with wild strength, gripping my wrist to stop me.

  “Stop
, stop, stop—no more, please, no more.” She spins in my arms. Collapses against me, and I encircle her with my arms. “Any more and I’ll…god, I don’t know. I just can’t take another one.”

  I smell her hair, the sea and the damp hair smell. Feel her soft pliant skin under my hands and against my skin. Her breasts are flattened against my chest. Her nose is buried in my throat.

  “Thai?” Her voice is a small, quavering whisper.

  “Hmm?”

  “When I came, the first time…” smaller voice yet, embarrassed. “Something…um. Came…out…of me.”

  I grin against her hair. “Yeah, babe. You came so hard you squirted.”

  Nuzzles harder against me, as if to disappear against me, as if it’ll nullify her embarrassment. “I thought that was a myth.”

  “Guess not.”

  Silence.

  “I’m cold,” she murmurs.

  “Me too.” I cling to her, arms tight around her, one arm barred around her shoulders, the other low on her opposite hip. “Deep breath, Dee.”

  “Wha—” She has no time to complete the question.

  I’m already throwing us backward, and she barely manages to suck in a breath and hold it, and then we’re under the surface and I kick backward, away from shore, keeping her on top, and then I plant my feet and stand up.

  We’re in up to my chest, now, and she’s in my arms, kicking to stay afloat. Instinctively, her legs go around my waist.

  God, this feels good—her, wrapped around me, wet skin clammy and soft and cold, yet somehow warm at the same time.

  I walk shoreward, supporting her with my hands under her buttocks.

  She wiggles when the water is lapping around my calves. “Put me down, I can walk.”

  I just hike her higher. “I want to carry you. I like holding you like this.”

  She clings to me, as if scared of dropping. “Put me down, I’m too heavy.”

  “Oh my god,” I snort. “That’s such horseshit.”

  “I am!”