Wrong Room Wet and Fucked (Part 2)

Kylie's POV 

He didn’t give me time to adjust. His hips snapped forward again, burying every inch, then pulled back and slammed in again, hard. The wood off the door thudded softly with each impact. Fast. Unapologetic. I bit my lip hard.

The p**n still played loudly, its soundtrack mixing with the wet, filthy sounds of him fucking me—skin slapping, slick and rhythmic, my cunt gripping him so tight every thrust made a lewd, wet “schlick”.

“Damn…” He growled, hips snapping harder, deeper. His thick cock dragged over every sensitive ridge inside me, the head battering that perfect spot that made my vision blur. I bit my lip harder.

My free leg trembled against his hip. He felt it and suddenly dropped that leg, both hands sliding under my thighs and hauling me up against the door in one powerful lift. My back slammed harder into the wood. My legs locked around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back as he pinned me there, suspended, completely open for him.

“Fuck—yes!” I moaned, the sound breaking as he drove up into me from this new angle, deeper than before. Every thrust lifted me higher against the door, my tits bouncing between us, nipples scraping his damp chest.

He crashed his mouth on mine, messy, tongue sliding past my lips as he fucked me harder. I moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating between us. He swallowed it, kissed me deeper, one hand fisting in my hair to tilt my head just the way he wanted while his other arm stayed locked under my ass, holding me up so he could pound into me without mercy.

“You feel that?” he rasped against my lips between kisses. “Taking every fucking inch… so wet for a stranger…”

“Yes—ah—don’t stop—” I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. The stretch was perfect, the heat unbearable. Every upward thrust dragged his cock along my front wall, the base grinding my clit, and the alcohol that had made everything fuzzy now made every sensation sharp.

He kissed me again, slower this time, tongue stroking mine in time with his thrusts, like he wanted to taste every broken sound I made. I moaned into it, shameless, hips rolling to meet him as best I could while he held me up and used me against the door.

“Moan for me,” he growled, lips brushing mine. “Let me hear how good this cock feels inside you.”

I did. Broken, needy sounds poured out of me with every deep stroke—half-moans, half-whimpers—while the p**n kept blaring and the door rattled under us.

My orgasm hit without warning, a sudden, shaking wave that locked every muscle and tore a broken cry from my throat. He followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing hard, breath hot against my neck as he flooded me.

We stayed like that for several long seconds, breathing hard, my back still pressed to the door, his weight pinning me there, cock still twitching inside me.

A knock sounded from the hallway. Polite. Professional.

“Miss Jones? Front desk. We’ve confirmed your keycard is twenty-forty. Or we can bring a new one up if you prefer.”

I stared at the stranger still buried inside me. Neither of us moved.

He eased out of me carefully, set my foot back on the floor, and stepped back just enough to give me space. My underwear lay in a small black heap near my discarded bag. I didn’t reach for either.

The man still half-hard tilted his head slightly.

“Jake,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Carson.”

I swallowed. “Kylie.”

He nodded once, calm as ever, and turned toward the bathroom. I heard the faucet running a moment later. When he returned he was drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable.

“You’re in the wrong room,” he said. “And you’re drunk. Sit down before you fall over.”

I sat on the edge of the bed because my legs still felt unreliable. Jake moved around the room with quiet efficiency, muted the phone, pulled on a pair of dark sweatpants that hung low on his hips, then poured a glass of water from the minibar and set it on the nightstand beside me.

“Drink that. You can spend the night here. We’ll talk in the morning.”

I wanted to demand my own room, or an explanation, or at least a little less of that calm authority. Instead I drank the chilled water. Exhaustion and the lingering heat in my body pulled me sideways onto the pillows.

……………

I woke to soft gray light filtering through the transparent curtains and the unmistakable sound of a man stroking himself nearby.

My head throbbed. My body ached in places that made the night before impossible to dismiss as a dream, although I couldn't place it. I pushed up on one elbow.

A man sat in the armchair by the window, sweatpants shoved down just enough, one large hand moving slowly along his cock. He watched me sinfully, in a way that made my body betray me.

Confusion flickered. What was I doing here? 

“Morning…” the man slurred.

That's when the memory of the door, the kiss, the way he’d fucked me and groaned with this same voice against the wood, settled into place with humiliating clarity.

The worst? He didn’t stop stroking.

“Feel better?” he asked quietly. “You walked into the wrong room last night. I didn’t let you leave. We both came. Twice, if we’re counting properly.” His thumb swept over the head of his cock, gathering the bead of moisture there. “I’m Jake Carson. You’re Kylie. And unless you tell me to stop, we’re going to finish the morning the same way we started the night.”

My pulse kicked hard under my skin. I should have stood up, demanded my clothes and a clear path to the door. Instead I stayed where I was, thighs pressing together against the residual slickn

ess between them, and watched the slow, deliberate movement of his hand.