The room was dim—only the soft, bluish glow from the city lights slicing through the half-open blinds
I laid Patt down on the edge of the king bed—gentle with her back and shoulders, brutal with the way I kept her thighs wrenched wide over my forearms until the moment her ass hit the sheets with a soft, wet slap.
She whimpered—high and broken—when I finally pulled my mouth away; her pussy glistened obscenely in the low light like something freshly fucked and still starving: outer lips dark plum and swollen fat, inner folds flushed violent crimson and fluttering like torn silk, clit engorged to the size of a ripe cherry and throbbing visibly with its own heartbeat, entrance still winking open and closed in aftershocks, leaking a slow, continuous silver thread of thick cream that pooled beneath her ass on the comforter in a dark, spreading stain.
I straightened.
She watched me—eyes glassy, wrecked, pupils blown black with hunger—as I reached for my shirt.
