shoes, hats, sneakers. The opposite wall had rows of coats and, underneath, a myriad of play things:
skateboards, two Segways, a bike and, at the back, a table used for storing hats, gloves, scarves. Or rather, it used to be. As Davie cleared it with one hand, Sarah tore her lips from his for long
enough to whip her vest top over her head. The bra went with it. Davie sat her on the table and immediately dropped to take her nipple in his mouth, her head thrown back, gasping, while her hands
worked at releasing the button on his jeans. Davie licked his way over to the other breast now, flicking the nipple with his tongue, making her groan, pant and work even harder to release his cock.
Mission accomplished, she pushed the jeans down onto his thighs, her hands immediately going round his cock. He stopped her, pushed her back, flicked open her shorts and whipped them down while her
hands reached into his hair, grasping. He pulled her thong off in one movement and then moved back between her legs, his cock raised and swollen. Sarah opened her legs wider to let him slip inside
her, then lay back on the table, her body raised on her elbows, before slipping her ankles over his shoulders, letting him penetrate deeper, harder. She crossed her feet behind his neck, locking
him there, while he put one hand on each of her hips, holding her steady, while he fucked her, hard, fast, deep.
She surrendered to the ferociousness of the movement, lowering her head and shoulders onto the table now too, bringing her hands up to cup her breasts. Her fingers traced the edges of her
nipples, round and round, round again.
‘Fuck, you’re beautiful,’ he gasped, watching every movement, still pounding into her, a sheen of sweat appearing now on a torso that was as ripped as any model on a Calvin
Klein billboard.
The moment he said it, she felt the tingles of an orgasm start at her pelvis and grow, spreading across her stomach, working north, her ribs, her tits, her neck, her head, a sensation of utter
bliss exploding inside her, her scream making his dick take control of his body, pumping harder, harder, harder, holding her tighter, tighter, tighter . . .
‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, oh fu-u-u-u-ck,’ he spat, through teeth that were clenched shut, his head thrown back, his eyes closed until every drop of him had left his cock.
Still inside her, he flopped forward, resting his chin in the space gravity had made on her chest, having pulled her breasts to the side. He’d told her many times that it was his favourite
part of her body, mostly because it was rarity in LA. You couldn’t toss a silicon implant down any street without it landing on a female with fake tits, the kind that stayed upright and
immobile when she lay, like Sarah now, on her back.
‘I bloody love you,’ he said, never more handsome than when he was happy, post-coital and still – quite literally – joined at the hip.
Laughing, she ran one finger down the centre of his forehead, over his nose, to his mouth. He clenched his teeth round it, making her yelp.
‘Ouch! No rough stuff. There are clubs you can go to for that.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve lost my gimp mask. I think my girlfriend burned it,’ he told her sorrowfully, making her giggle.
Actually giggle.
Sarah McKenzie, hard-assed journalist, didn’t – in any other part of her life – do giggling.
That was the effect Davie Johnston had on her. He was funny, crazy, wild and she adored him.
Cupping a finger under his chin, she raised his head so that she could push back up onto her elbows. ‘OK, much as that made the earth move, I need to get to work, and I believe
you’re supposed to be handling a dead-rock-star crisis situation. May he rest in peace.’
‘I think Jizzo would approve,’ he told her solemnly.
She took that moment to prise him gently out of her and slide to her feet, grinning. ‘Look, if it’s quiet out tonight, I’ll come back over. Maybe around three. Don’t wait
up, though
skateboards, two Segways, a bike and, at the back, a table used for storing hats, gloves, scarves. Or rather, it used to be. As Davie cleared it with one hand, Sarah tore her lips from his for long
enough to whip her vest top over her head. The bra went with it. Davie sat her on the table and immediately dropped to take her nipple in his mouth, her head thrown back, gasping, while her hands
worked at releasing the button on his jeans. Davie licked his way over to the other breast now, flicking the nipple with his tongue, making her groan, pant and work even harder to release his cock.
Mission accomplished, she pushed the jeans down onto his thighs, her hands immediately going round his cock. He stopped her, pushed her back, flicked open her shorts and whipped them down while her
hands reached into his hair, grasping. He pulled her thong off in one movement and then moved back between her legs, his cock raised and swollen. Sarah opened her legs wider to let him slip inside
her, then lay back on the table, her body raised on her elbows, before slipping her ankles over his shoulders, letting him penetrate deeper, harder. She crossed her feet behind his neck, locking
him there, while he put one hand on each of her hips, holding her steady, while he fucked her, hard, fast, deep.
She surrendered to the ferociousness of the movement, lowering her head and shoulders onto the table now too, bringing her hands up to cup her breasts. Her fingers traced the edges of her
nipples, round and round, round again.
‘Fuck, you’re beautiful,’ he gasped, watching every movement, still pounding into her, a sheen of sweat appearing now on a torso that was as ripped as any model on a Calvin
Klein billboard.
The moment he said it, she felt the tingles of an orgasm start at her pelvis and grow, spreading across her stomach, working north, her ribs, her tits, her neck, her head, a sensation of utter
bliss exploding inside her, her scream making his dick take control of his body, pumping harder, harder, harder, holding her tighter, tighter, tighter . . .
‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, oh fu-u-u-u-ck,’ he spat, through teeth that were clenched shut, his head thrown back, his eyes closed until every drop of him had left his cock.
Still inside her, he flopped forward, resting his chin in the space gravity had made on her chest, having pulled her breasts to the side. He’d told her many times that it was his favourite
part of her body, mostly because it was rarity in LA. You couldn’t toss a silicon implant down any street without it landing on a female with fake tits, the kind that stayed upright and
immobile when she lay, like Sarah now, on her back.
‘I bloody love you,’ he said, never more handsome than when he was happy, post-coital and still – quite literally – joined at the hip.
Laughing, she ran one finger down the centre of his forehead, over his nose, to his mouth. He clenched his teeth round it, making her yelp.
‘Ouch! No rough stuff. There are clubs you can go to for that.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve lost my gimp mask. I think my girlfriend burned it,’ he told her sorrowfully, making her giggle.
Actually giggle.
Sarah McKenzie, hard-assed journalist, didn’t – in any other part of her life – do giggling.
That was the effect Davie Johnston had on her. He was funny, crazy, wild and she adored him.
Cupping a finger under his chin, she raised his head so that she could push back up onto her elbows. ‘OK, much as that made the earth move, I need to get to work, and I believe
you’re supposed to be handling a dead-rock-star crisis situation. May he rest in peace.’
‘I think Jizzo would approve,’ he told her solemnly.
She took that moment to prise him gently out of her and slide to her feet, grinning. ‘Look, if it’s quiet out tonight, I’ll come back over. Maybe around three. Don’t wait
up, though
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