Whirlwind

by Kayla Grosse

We’ve got a twister to tame —who the fuck even says that out loud? Me, apparently. I’m that asshole.

“Ryker.” His name leaves me in a whisper. He blinks but doesn’t stop staring, his hold on me only tightening as our heads dip closer together. “Tell me not to kiss you, Finley.”

“Then tell me what I feel for you is wrong. That I need to get up and walk away.”

“How many times did you imagine fucking your professor, Ms. Buckley?” Her nails dig deeper. I continue with the circles, not giving in to the wiggling hips urging me to move. “Please,” she begs. I reward her with a small shallow thrust and bite her earlobe. “Be a good girl, and tell me.” “Too many to count.”

my body slowly coming down from the adrenaline of the tornado and the best sex of my life.

Even if everything inside me wants to put her on her hands and knees and shove it back inside her then fill her with more until she’s so full of me it will drip out of her for days.

Finley is a woman who wants the truth—a truth I can’t give her—so I lie.

“It’s never too early to call someone Daddy. Especially when said Daddy has got such great biceps.”

“Do you, A, want me to lick your pussy until you’re begging for me to fill you with my cock”—a small whimper escapes her lips—“B, want to grip the headboard and ride my face until you suffocate me with your sweet cunt—” “Ryker,” she moans, her hips rubbing against my jean-clad thigh. “Or, C, want to get on your hands and knees and let me fuck you so hard our wall neighbor, who happens to be Ezra, will call the front desk to give them a noise complaint.”

“Come on, Ms. Buckley,” he taunts. “I’ll give you extra credit if you soak my beard.”