Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California Read Free

a nipple in his mouth.
                  She moaned as his tongue slid across her hypersensitive nipple. She wrapped one arm around his head and ran her fingers through his short, military cut hair. With her other hand, she reached down and shifted her panties to one side.
                  His cock protruded between them and she guided it toward the damp slit between her legs. Still sucking her tits, Sen growled as the head of his dick rubbed against her opening.
                  She squatted, poised with him at her entrance. She sank, slowly engulfing him until just the tip penetrated her. Sen’s growl trailed off into a sound almost like a whimper and his head fell back on the seat, eyes closed. She felt his fingers tighten in steel bands around her waist.
                  Sure she was aligned, she plunged down his shaft. The sensation of being split, of being filled rolled into her body as he slid into the sheath of her vagina. Both her hands went to the sides of his face and she rolled her belly downward, rubbing her swollen and tender clitoris against his pelvis as she took him, balls deep.
                  This was the feeling, the one she craved. And in her secret heart the sleaziness of the situation aroused her in a way she never found anywhere else except with a client. Yes, she was an elite escort to a millionaire class, courtesan to the jet set. But at her base, inside where the animal who drove her hunger coiled like a dark snake, she was what she was; a whore.
                  She was a whore putting out for money. She rolled her hips again, grinding her clit hard, fucking the stiff dick between her legs. She was taking cock for pay, an activity that dated back through the millenniums.
                  She found her balance on her knees now, shifted her weight, and began bouncing up and down. She pressed her tits into Sen, smearing them across his face. They were both full into it now, fucking hard, Sen snorting like a stallion, her crying out with each hard stroke.
                  She ground down with her hips, changing the angle of entry, and the head of his dick skimmed across G-spot, making her shout.
                  “Fuck, yes,” she yelled.
                  Sen’s hands, the brutal hands of a killer and soldier, grabbed the full, soft globes of her cheeks and squeezed hard, and she panted in response. Her body burned with feeling, surging with pleasure signals like electricity through copper wire. Their groins made a wet, slopping sound as they fucked and that familiar burning pressure of an impending orgasm began building.
                  “Come on, baby,” she begged as they fucked, head back, eyes closed. “Come on, baby. Put it to me.”
                  Sen responded by pulling her down into his thrust as his hips slammed upward. It was too much, all of it, too much. Her clit mashed into his lower abdomen just above the root of his cock, while the dick itself scrapped over her G-spot in a fevered rhythm. Hot, wet lips clamped onto her tits, sucking her nipples. Strong hands massaged her ass cheeks.
                  It didn’t matter who she was with, which dick was inside her, it was this bright, intense moment she lived for. The Spanish had a saying for that instant when the Matador stepped into the bull’s charge and slid his sword home; they called it, The Moment of Truth.
                  Teeth clenched, her moment of truth, hit her like a train and she shrieked her pleasure. Inside her Sen shot, and she felt hot ejaculate splash up inside her, squirting in a convulsive rhythm so the feeling of his cum pushed her further over the cliff.
                  Her body shook as she lulled forward and sagged into his embrace. They sat for a long moment, neither moving. Inside her, she felt his dick begin to soften and she moaned at