Every brutal thrust made her swollen lips drag and cling desperately to the thick, veined shaft.
Every withdrawal left her stretched hole gaping for a heartbeat—a slick, twitching O ringed with thick white cream—before he drove back in with a loud, obscene schlorp.
Her nectar coated him in glossy layers; silken strands of her essence stretched and snapped between her flushed folds and his retreating length. The sight was apocalyptic, her once-tight pussy now ruined and frothing shamelessly for the dragon, thick creamy collars building around the half of his girth she could swallow.
The truth gutted Jonathan deeper than any blade ever could.
She had always been capable of this.
He had simply never been worthy of unlocking it.
Phei's thrusts grew deeper. Harder. Still not all of him—she couldn't possibly take every inch—but more than enough to hammer against hidden places inside her that made her vision fracture into white light.
Schlick—schlorp—SCHLAP.
