The Escort Next Door Read Free Page A

he wanted
me so desperately. So, I felt torn. On one hand, grateful for being made to
feel sexy and desired. On the other, a sense that this was little more than a
mad dash to sheath himself within me.
    “Paul,” I moaned, the weight of his chest pressing the air
out of my lungs.
    “That’s right,” he panted heavily, uncoordinated hands
fumbling awkwardly with the clasp and zipper of his pants. “Say my name.”
Muttering curses under his breath, he edged his pants and underwear off his
hips, stopping as soon as they’d reached his upper thighs. His erection now
free, the soft flesh of its head rubbed along my inner thigh.
    “Babe,” I muttered, the open zipper of his pants digging
uncomfortably into my leg. “Please.”
    Misinterpreting my plea or perhaps just too engrossed in his
own mission, Paul’s sloppy, drunken hands gripped the edges of my panties.
“Ugh,” he grunted, yanking at the fabric. The rip of white lace met his growl
of aggression and the backs of his fingers briefly brushed my outer lips.
    Unconsciously, my hips jerked in response, craving more of
the same. But his hand was cruelly ripped away as quickly as it had been placed
there. I was aroused, I did want him, but I wasn’t ready for what came next.
    Paul quickly adjusted himself, bracing his hands on the
mattress either side of my waist before driving his hips forwards with a
masculine bark of release.
    I sucked in a breath, my fingernails digging into his back,
as my body was quickly and ruthlessly speared. “Ahh,” I wailed, my sex seeming
to fight against the invasion. I tried to force myself to relax, to breathe
slowly and allow my body to accept him, but it was all happening much too
quickly. Any sensual and erotic thoughts I tried to conjure were immediately
chased away when he began to pump fiercely. “Ouch,” I yelped. “Paul, you’re
hurting me.”
    His lower half was soon slapping against mine in a rapid
tattoo. He groaned and muttered, the friction of my unprepared channel
apparently proving uncomfortable for him. “You’re pussy is so...tight,” he
grunted haltingly, only a syllable being uttered on each thrust.
    I was barely able to hear him. Everything around me was a
blur. The only thing that had any clarity was the pain of each callous drive of
his pelvis, which caused me to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from
screaming.
    Amid the discomfort and the grateful awareness that at least
it wouldn’t last long, I remember wondering what the hell was going on. Sex
with Paul had never been like this, even when he’d had a few too many drinks.
Even when he was a teenager and orgasm was all he ever thought about, he’d
never used my body like he did that night. It was as though I was with a
stranger.
    Forcing my gaze upward, I stared at his face. His eyes were
squeezed shut, but if they’d been open he would have been staring at the wall
straight in front of him. His features were tight with pained concentration.
I’ll never know exactly what he was concentrating on, but it definitely wasn’t
me. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he continued to lurch forwards,
slamming his erection to the hilt with each viscous thrust. “Oh, yeah,” he
grunted. “You like that.”
    I drew in a deep breath, holding it while his movements lost
their rhythmic pattern. The speed and depth started to grow erratic, until
finally with a groan of, “Oh, shit!” he flopped forward and collapsed on top of
me. His hips jerked and one leg spasmed as I felt his seed pulse into me in
strong, hot bursts. That sensation, which had always been indicative of love,
pleasure and the sharing of something primal suddenly made me feel sullied. I
instantly felt guilty for feeling that way. After all, this was my husband, the
man I loved with all my heart. Maybe the encounter had been lacking in romance
and foreplay, but I’d still given him something special, which meant, by
default, that what we’d done was special. At least, that’s what