CALISTA
“Taking me so well this time, Spitfire. You missed this giant cock, didn’t you? Sucking me in real tight with that obedient little pussy of yours,” Gage coos, clamping his hands on the curves of my sides, thrusting his cockhead into my cervix and holding me captive with his hypnotizing strokes.
When one of my moans pitches into the air, no longer bayed by the grit of my teeth, a hand comes down on my ass cheek, smacking it so hard that the skin’s probably turned red. With each snap of Gage’s hips against my ass, he stokes the onslaught of pleasure in my belly.
“God, I love it when you’re loud. Letting everyone know I own this cunt.”
I bore my nails into the sheets of his bed, clinging to the mattress as my body rocks forward and my cunt squeezes back in retaliation. “And all this talking is making me dry,” I growl.
Another slap to my ass—one that ripples my flesh and issues a loud noise into the lust-laced atmosphere.
“You call this dry?” Gage slots himself rather sloppily into my pussy, the evidence of our arousal slicking together in a squelch that confutes my jab at him, and I hate to admit it, but the sound of us together makes me even wetter.
My thighs tremble even as they’re supported by the edge of the bed, and my heart rebels in the cavern of my chest with an equally loud echo—one that I’m sure he can hear among the viscous sloshes and the slapping of skin.
Ceasing his onslaught on my ass, he sets his attention on my hair, weaving his fingers through the strands and yanking harshly. “Don’t lie to me, Calista. Especially not when I’m inside you.”
God, I hate him sometimes. I really do. I hate him with the burning passion of a thousand suns—oh!
Gage speeds up with his punishing ruts, delving somehow deeper, the balls of his piercings bumping inside me. They don’t fully set me off, but they’re like tickles of cold against my sweltering heat, teasing me with the choreographed roll of his pelvis. My brain’s so addled with delirium that my smart-ass reply fuzzes on my tongue, and I’m stripped of the ability to thread together a full sentence.
I can feel his cock dancing just outside of my G-spot, refraining from giving me that instant gratification, and at the same time whimpers warble out of me, satisfaction rumbles to life in his chest. “Not going to lie to me again, are you?” he taunts.
My tone assumes an acrid bitterness that I unashamedly love the taste of. “Are you going to stop being a pretentious ass?” I hiss, bearing back down on his dick and causing him to falter in his sequence of pumps, his hand sliding out of my hair and slamming against the mattress to steady himself.
I know I should be shaking in my metaphorical boots, seizing up in stomach-turning anticipation for the punishment he’s about to give me, but I love playing with him, testing the limits he’s willing to stretch and obliterating them completely. That sought-after victory is just outside my reach, and no way in hell am I going to submit that easily.
Gage’s breath shudders out of him, but his tongue still curls around a note of irritation. “Wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t such a brat.”
“I’m not a brat. I’m just not some cock-dumb girl drooling over you,” I counter, all while getting split on Gage’s engorged length, his leisurely pace graduating to a rough set of bottoming thrusts that pinch tears from the corners of my eyes.
It feels so fucking good. The pressure in my lower stomach is almost painful, but it’s the kind of painful I chase in increments—and the kind of painful that leaks from my stuffed cunt in milky-white emissions.
He leans forward enough to brush his lips over the shell of my ear, the heft of his ball sack hanging heavy against the backs of my thighs. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
I wish I could rebound with another witty remark, but my words are on a collision course with the mewls that tumble from my raw throat. My cunt flutters around the plug of his dick, lubricating enough of his shaft to suck him in deeper than he already is, and my walls ripple over the foreign metal of his piercings. They satisfy a recurring itch I can’t scratch, and the way Gage weaponizes them makes bliss froth in my belly.
He removes his steeling arm and drags his hand down the arch of my spine, resting his fingers on my healing tattoo, and a shiver folds like an accordion through my body.
“Why’d you get my number here, Spitfire?” he asks, though I know the question is rhetorical.
And considering I’m the putty in his hands for a change, I don’t have it in me to engage in flirtatious banter. I need to come. I need it so badly that I’m at the point of praising Gage just so I can feel that liquefying release. Praising him. Every time I grow that ego of his, a little part of me dies inside. I’ll be eviscerated by the time he pulls out of me.
“Did you really think I’d wear your jersey every time we had sex?”
Gage’s cock stirs—whether it’s from my bite or the image, I have no clue. “Considering how many times we have sex, that would be ridiculous.”
Even though we’re having a full-on conversation for God knows why in the middle of fucking, his plows never plateau to a sloppy mess, and that hockey player stamina of his doesn’t even jeopardize a single breath. He’s all hard muscle against me, the grill of his abs pressing into my ass, and every nerve pathway inside of me lights up in preparation for a sensory overload.
“You could’ve gotten it anywhere else—”
A warning halfway to a growl. “Gage…”
A whimper lurches out of his quivering frame, and he gently forceps the skin of my back between two fingers. “You got it so I would see it every time I took you from behind, didn’t you?”
I hydrate my esophagus with a swallow, white-knuckling the covers beneath me, trying to redirect my focus on anything but the hungry kickback of his cock or the shamefully abundant gush now coating his length.
“I got it so I’d turn you on every time I reached for something on the top shelf,” I jest.
“Baby, you turn me on by simply fucking breathing,” he groans, snaking his other hand to my swaying tit, where he circles the tapered point of my nipple with his thumb before pressing down. Sensitive—as is every part of my body under Gage’s Midas touch—I rear my ass back into his torso, blighted by the need to squirm.
He tweaks my bud once more in that torturous seesaw motion, and gooseflesh ignites over my clammy skin, unearthing all kinds of embarrassing noises to grate from my mouth.
“Gage, please…”
He switches his attention from my nipple to the mound of my breast, kneading it with his large hand, rough enough to make my belly contract but soft enough to abstain from leaving a bruise. “You gonna be a good girl now, Cali? You gonna be a good girl and let me fuck your sopping wet cunt? You gonna let me come all over that slutty little tramp stamp?”
I nod weakly, mentally trying to bargain with my hormones to chill the fuck out before I lose the last bit of my dignity, but they toxify the lust-thinned blood running through my system and suck my sensible thoughts into a black hole.
“Use your words,” he orders. “Tell me how badly you want to come.”
The slightly wet smack of his balls against my legs reverberates in the room as he speeds up, knowing just how much control I surrender when he quickens his pace, and it feels like my innards are mutilating themselves with each pull of his dick. He nicks my G-spot, and the tears now snail down my cheeks.
“I want to come,” I whine. “Please. Please let me come. I can’t—”
Through my body’s convulsions and my water-obscured vision, it’s surprising I feel Gage’s lips play on the wing of my shoulder blade at all. He peppers tender kisses there, trilling out praise under his breath, and his hand falls away from my tit to offer me respite.
“I know. You’re doing so well, though. Taking me without any trouble, using me just like you should. Love everything about you and this God-gifted pussy.”
I bow my spine like a cat stretching on a sunlit windowsill, throwing my saffron hair back to waterfall down the small of my back, and I inadvertently pluck a lengthy moan from Gage’s vocal cords.
“Christ, Cali. You can’t be moving like that,” he says through clenched teeth, his hands reclaiming their brutal grip on my hips, the smallest, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blip in his unforgiving pace. “Gonna come in three seconds if you do that.”
I milk his hard erection in angry pulses, soaking him to the hilt with my slick, and failing to regulate my breathing. My whole body is on fire with sweat and tears sullying my face, that tingly sensation in my stomach radiating outwards. “Then stop fucking me like that,” I hiss.
I can practically hear him grinning.
“Fucking”—thrust—“you”—thrust—“like”—thrust—“this?”
I’m going to kill him. Right after I come. Or maybe I’ll kill him with my pussy in a two-birds-one-stone situation. A scream nearly wrenches itself from my throat, and pressure is building in everything south, causing my legs to shake and my grip on the bed to slip. It’s almost too much. I almost need a breather, but I’m so close.
“I’m going to—oh, God. I don’t know how much longer—” I’m not sure if what I said even made any sense. My underdeveloped thoughts are a bunch of fine-point needles in my pin cushion head, and my impending orgasm—the one he’s been drawing out for a good thirty minutes—begins to bubble up from behind my navel. With the position he has me in, it would be a miracle for me to get my cum solely on his sheets.
That bullying motion of his cock ratchets in severity, and now we’re shaking the bed’s headboard against the wall every time he sends me forward. Dear God, I’m pretty sure all his teammates are still downstairs. Actually, it doesn’t matter where they are in the house. These walls are as thin as wafers.
“Since I’m feeling so generous today, I’ll let you come now,” he drawls with all the arrogance in the world, and I’m so glad I can’t see his smug smirk.
He’s luring me to the edge, sweet-talking me into blindly falling off it, and I’m following him like a pea-brained lemming. “Fuck…”
That insult is supposed to end with “you,” but I never get it out.
“Come, Calista. Don’t hold back. Squirt all over my dick until we’re both fucking drenched.”
A protest crosses my tongue, albeit a weak one. My eyes momentarily dip down toward the floor, where I curse the carpet that’s ironically made this whole session very comfortable for my feet. “Your…carpet…”
“It’s a carpet,” Gage bites back. “Make a mess everywhere.”
I’d prefer to have a relatively easy cleanup, so when I go to debate with him, all he does is growl at me like some barbaric caveman and slip his hand underneath my torso, hovering his fingers right over my lower abdomen.
“Ga—”
“Make. A. Mess. Everywhere.”
And then, upon the command of his fingers, he presses down on my stomach, persuading everything to rocket out of me in a geyser—one that still manages to splash onto the carpet even with the obstruction of his cock. I cry out through my orgasm, feeling all that accumulation knock down a dam and flow out of me, a jet of arousal branching off from another one and trickling down the backs of my legs.
Gage groans the loudest he has yet, rumbling the entire room, and those consistent strokes start to turn sloppy. “Fuck. Can I soak that gorgeous back, Spitfire?” His words are wrestled into one long string that barely sounds human, and I give him a matching muffle that poorly imitates a yes.
I feel him slip out of me, feel him swoop my hair to the side, hear the smack of his palm on the root of his dick, then feel him shower my back in an abundance of cum. The splattering of his arousal marries with the syncing of our labored pants, and I wait to move until he gets everything out of him, my appetite slowly becoming more satiated as I step out of my post-orgasm haze.
I never forgot how incredible our sex was the first time, but now it’s just dawned on me that I have access to his dick for the—I’m assuming—rest of my life. And Gage Arlington, you may be giant pain in my ass, but that monster cock of yours is heaven-sent.
“Are you okay?” he breathes, one hand stabilized on my hip and the other holding my hair out of the splash zone. His tone is shades softer, so soft in fact that his concern is as clear as day.
“I’m okay. Are you okay?”
Gage swipes his fingers over the small of my back, right over my tattoo, sponging up the thin glaze on his pads. “Fucking fantastic,” he replies.
My heart pretty much explodes every time Gage gives me praise, and this time’s no different. If I could move without getting cum everywhere, then I’d maul him in kisses.
He gently rests my sex-tousled locks over my shoulder before planting one of his post-sex kisses on me. “Let me clean you up,” he says.
He comes back with a towel right away and begins to clean my back, all while dishing out that praise I chase like a fiend, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a dopey, lovestruck smile smacked right on his face.
“So I’m guessing there’ll be an increase in doggy for, like, now until ever?” I joke.
“Of course not. I’m here to please you, remember? You’re the one who calls the shots.”
“I am?” I mean, I am. But I didn’t think he’d ever admit it.
Gage tends to my spine, being extra gentle with me like he always is during aftercare. “Duh. You wear the pants in this relationship.”
I make a little noise of pride and bob my head in confirmation. “I do wear the pants in this relationship.”
I still can’t see what Gage is doing, but I feel his body displace some of the air around me, and his lips are by my ear as the towel is rerouted to my upper back. “And if I’m lucky, you won’t be wearing any at all,” he whispers right before he grabs me and flips me onto my back, making me squeal and squirm.
He’s leaning over me with a twinkle of adoration in his eyes, and just as I suspected—that dopey, lovestruck smile is stretching his mouth so wide that he’s all gums and teeth. But he’s not staring at me in hopes that we go for round two. He’s staring at me just to stare at me, refamiliarizing his gaze with every stripped inch of my body, keeping record of this memory so he can watch it, rewind it, and repeat it for who knows how long.
I never thought love was real. Or, I did, but I never thought it was for me. I’d come to believe that I’d be one of those rare people who never experienced it, and who was destined to be alone for the rest of their life. But Gage—this stupid, bigmouthed hockey player—barged his way into my life, and now love’s the only thing I’ll ever know. He’s given me enough love to last me a lifetime.
“Gage, I love you,” I tell him before the tears start to repopulate on my waterline.
“I love you so fucking much, Cali. More than you’ll ever know.”
It’s never just a “you too” out of convenience with Gage. It’s never anything less than him hand-wrapping and gifting me the stars, the sun, and the moon. He didn’t take my broken pieces and cover up the cracks to magically fix me. He saw them, glued them back together, then let the light shine through those incredible fissures.
He turned scars into stars.
His lips are over mine in the blink of an eye, tasting and feeling like home. And when he pulls back just slightly, only allowing space to whisper to me, I know I’m going to crash right back into him.
“And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”
