by Lara Wilson

He loses himself in her supple body. Eyes closed, he shuts out the sound of her murmured commands, and just feels. Flesh on flesh, hot, sweaty, tight and firm. His hands cup her ass, her legs cling to his hips. He's young, strong, and lifts her off the floor. A picture bangs against the wall as he bangs her next to it, thrusting his hips up, driving his cock deeply into her swollen heat.

She keens. He ignores it. Mouth buried in the spot where her neck and shoulder meet, he wants to bite her, but restrains himself.

Mustn't leave any marks. That's her only rule besides the one requiring condoms. He's not stupid enough to ignore either rule.

But she marks him. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders as she rides him, sliding against the smooth wall her head lolls against. He feels the momentary pain and it spurs him on, harder, faster, hips pumping mindlessly. He needs to come, to explode into her and disappear, if just for a moment, in the blaze of pleasure

His eyes open and he regrets it immediately. Avaricious dark eyes meet his, pouty lips, the red color smeared across them open as she says his name, and dark brown hair falls over his shoulder as she leans forward to kiss him.

He allows it for a moment, stopping his thrusts, holding her still, then he slides from her and turns her before she can protest. One hand finds her nape, grips it, bends her, the other presses between her thighs. She parts them eagerly, and places her hands on the wall, pushing back against him.

A smooth stroke and he's inside her again, pounding away. Hands on her neck and hip, he stares at the wall way above her head and doesn't look at her.

If he doesn't look at her, he can pretend it's not her he's fucking against the wall. He can pretend she's smaller, younger...blonde. The pretending brings on a fresh rush of lust.

Gritting his teeth, he reaches around her hip, delves between her legs for her clit, fingers her. Her cries fill the air and when she stiffens and shudders in orgasm, he lets himself go. Braced against her, he comes, panting harshly.

A few minutes later he's on the sofa, jeans on, head back, eyes closed. He hears the clink of ice in a glass and opens his eyes to see her wrapped in a nearly sheer purple silk robe, pouring whisky into two tumblers. Now that the sex is over he can acknowledge who she is and smiles a fake smile as she hands him his glass.

"Thank you for a delightful afternoon, Mrs. Casablancas."

Perching on the arm of the couch, Kendall smirks down at Logan and sips from her glass, pleased at her young lover's performance.

Only a tiny bit of her is jealous of the Veronica he cries out for every time he comes.


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