What She Needs by Lacey Alexander

her, moving between her legs, parting her, and at least two of them pushed up inside her, making her cry out. Yes, yes ! At last—something there, inside her. She bit her lip, her breathing ragged. More, please. She wanted to beg—but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to want it. She just wanted him to take it.
    His fingers thrust inside her and she heard her own wetness and wondered briefly what she looked like bent over a handrail, her dress lifted to her waist—but she pushed that thought aside. In fact, she shut her eyes again since that made it all easier. To just feel. To just pretend she was dreaming or something.
    And then Brent’s fingers were gone and Jenna knew what would come next, so she bit her lip, bracing herself, and then there he was—so, so hard—positioning himself, and she instinctively arched deeper, lifting her bottom higher, and then— oh !—he was inside her, entering slow and, as promised, so very deep.
    Thank God she held on to the rail or she’d be on her knees now. The sob that left her rose from her gut. God, he felt big—it had been so long since she’d done this. But he also felt good , delivering that incredible fullness she’d yearned for.
    When he began to move in her, it was slow, thorough, his strokes stretching all through her—from head to toe. Big, so big. He filled her. And she gradually began to push back against him, meeting his long, sensual thrusts, taking him deeper still.
    “Open your eyes, Jenna,” he purred over her. She’d turned her head to the side at some point, so he knew they were closed. “Feel this. Experience this. All of it.”
    Biting her lip, she did as he said. She took in the beach again—a glimpse of white foam as waves broke over the shore in the moonlight. He was right. She felt it more this way. And it made it . . . dirtier. To be forced to remember she stood in a gazebo, fully dressed, being . . . fucked by him, a total stranger. She never used that word, but he used it a lot, and as he drove up into her wetness, again, again, she knew that’s what this was—fucking.
    She pushed against him, harder, harder. She heard her own labored breathing.
    And then Brent’s hand snaked around from her hip to the front, and when he sank his fingers there, she moaned. Yes, yes, God, please. More words she couldn’t bring herself to utter. With some other lover in some other place and time, maybe—but not with this stranger, this man who insisted he knew what she needed. It was impossible.
    So instead she simply moved with his touches and heard her heady moans waft up into the warm night air. Like before, each hot grind gave her pleasure from the front and the back, only much more intense now. His other hand rose to cup one breast through her dress, finger and thumb toying hotly with her nipple and making her undulate more wildly against him.
    His heated breath behind her fueled her, exciting her more. Soon he released her breast—only to thrust his hand inside her dress and warmly recapture it, flesh to flesh. She cried out at the new connection, and when he caught her sensitive nipple between two fingers, squeezing it as he began to massage—oh God. She bit her lip and thrust her wetness more insistently against his hand. And he whispered, “That’s right, baby, that’s so good.” And he began to drive his erection into her harder, harder, and she looked out on the beach and—oh my—spotted a couple, naked, doing exactly what they were: fucking.
    She took in everything Brent delivered as she focused, stunned and incredibly aroused, on the couple in the sand. The man lay on his back and the woman rode him wildly, her arms over her head like some sort of erotic cowgirl. They were far away, small from where she stood, but she could still make out the movements clearly, could still see the woman’s large breasts swaying in the moonlight. And she could sense the woman’s pleasure, stark and guiltless pleasure—and that was when the orgasm