Prick / Page 36

Page 36


She's making this little half-moan, half-grunting sound as she touches herself. Her pussy so flooded with wetness that I can't keep myself from thrusting into her harder and harder.

Her grip on the desk slips, and papers go flying off in every direction, important papers, her father's work I'm sure. I'm bending the Senator's uptight daughter over his desk and scattering his papers everywhere.

"Did you think about my cock sliding in and out of your tight little pussy?" I ask.

"Yes," she pants, her hand moving frantically between her thighs. Her pussy tightens around me and I know she's close. "Fuck. Caulter...Yes."

"You wanted this hard cock inside you," I say, my grip on her hips harder. I'm so close to exploding. "You wanted this fucking cock inside you, filling you up with my hot cum. Say it."

"Yes, yes," she moans.

"Say it now."

"Oh my God," she gasps. She loses her grip on the edge of the desk and something else falls to the ground with a thud, but I don't give a shit about it. "I'm going to..."

"Fuck, Kate, I'm going to come," I warn, before I do, slamming my cock inside her with one final thrust and gripping her hips as I pull her against me. Her moan is loud in the stillness of the house, and when she comes, her muscles tighten around my cock, milking every last ounce of cum from me.

I'm breathing heavily, my fingers pressing into her flesh for what seems like an eternity before I can even think straight. When I finally pull out of her, I roll off the condom and look around for the trash.

"Don't you dare," she hisses at me.


"Don't throw that away in here," she says, looking around. "Shit. I think we broke this." She pulls her dress down and squats to the floor to pick up a letter tray, clearly cracked along the edge.

I grab tissues from the desk to wrap the condom before getting my jeans. "So much for an orgasm helping you with your uptight-ness."

She's busily shoving papers back where they go, while I'm slipping my shirt back over my head. "Is that what you were trying to do?" she asks, placing the letter tray back on the desk while she mumbles something about finding glue. "I didn't know fucking me would magically transform me. It sure didn't change you into Prince Charming."

"Would you be Cinderella in this scenario?" I ask. "Because I doubt Cinderella was a bitch." She picks up a book from the desk and throws it, and it grazes my arm. "What, are you twelve?"

"You called me a bitch," she says, her eyes flashing. "What the hell do you expect?"

"I did not call you a bitch." I set the book back in its place on the desk. "I said I doubted Cinderella was one."

"Implying that I am."

"Imply nothing," I say. "Guilty conscience?"

"You're the most irritating person I've ever met." Her ass is pressed up against the desk, and I'm leg to leg against her. “I hate you.” She has the most fuckable mouth I've ever seen.

"The feeling is completely mutual," I say, before I bring my mouth down on hers, crushing her lips against mine.

Caulter and I are fucking. I mean, not this very moment, obviously. But we are fucking. In general. That’s our status. Like, if I had to update it on social media, it wouldn’t be one of those “it’s complicated” situations. It would just be “fucking.” That should be a status option, now that I think about it.

It's like my brain can't process this information. He's flipped some kind of switch in my body, turning me into the biggest stereotype ever: the uptight, virginal girl who loses the big V and becomes a sex-crazed maniac overnight.

I hate being a cliché. I tell myself that I'm not.

For one thing, it's not an overnight transformation. It's been a month, so I guess that's something.

A month of thinking constantly about him and his magic cock.

A month of thinking what it was like that night with him.

So now I'm one of those girls. One of the girls that Caulter has screwed. And now I'm basically the female version of Caulter, completely preoccupied with sex. Except that I’m fixated on just getting into his pants.

I’m standing on the ladder in the library. It sounds pretentious, a library in our lake house, I know.

But the library is my place. My father works in his office and hates this space. So it's mine. It's white and airy, this small room in a corner of the house with one wall that’s floor to ceiling bookshelves and one of those ladders that roll along the length of the wall. It even has a reading nook.

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