All Chapters of DIRTY DREAMS (AN EROTICA COLLECTION): Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

I broke his rule on purpose.The rule was simple: when he texts tonight, I respond within ten minutes. Not twenty. Not an hour. Not whenever I feel like it. Ten minutes. That's the agreement. That's the dynamic we built over six months of negotiations and safe words and the slow, delicious process of learning exactly how much control I want to hand over and exactly how firmly he wants to hold it.Tonight he texted at 7:14 PM. I read it at 7:15. I put my phone face-down on the counter and made dinner. Ate slowly. Washed the dishes. Dried them. Put them away.I responded at 8:47.Sorry, was busy.Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.Come over. Now.I took my time getting ready. Showered. Shaved. Chose the underwear carefully – black lace, the set he bought me, the thong that barely qualifies as fabric. Put on a sundress with nothing underneath but the lace because I want him to discover it himself. Drove to his place

His tongue drags through my folds – collecting every drop of arousal, pushing inside me, curling against my front wall from behind.Then he drags his tongue higher. Over my perineum. Circling my asshole with the tip."Oh fuck –"He rims me while my ass burns. The contrast is staggering – his soft, wet tongue circling my most sensitive hole while the skin surrounding it is hot and welted and stinging from twenty strikes. He alternates – slow circles, then fast flutters, then pressing flat and dragging across the rim with the full width of his tongue. Each pass sends shockwaves through my already overloaded nerves.He pushes his tongue inside my ass. Just the tip, then deeper – his tongue stiffening and pushing past the tight ring of muscle while his thumbs hold my welted cheeks spread. I cry out and grab the couch cushions and shove my face into the fabric and push my ass back against his mouth because the sensation of being rimmed on punished skin is driving me out of my mind."You do

I shouldn't be here. My ex is marrying a woman he started dating three weeks after dumping me, and I'm at table fourteen – the table they put you at when they don't want you but couldn't not invite you – in a red dress that cost more than the gift I brought, three glasses of champagne deep, watching Ethan dip his bride while the DJ plays Ed Sheeran.That's when I see him.Groomsman. Leaning against a pillar near the bar with a whiskey and a look that says he'd rather be anywhere else. Tall. Broad shoulders the suit jacket can't contain. Dark blond hair pushed back, a little too long. Strong jaw. Arms that strain the fabric when he lifts his glass.He catches me looking. I don't look away.He raises his glass. I raise mine. Game on.We orbit each other for an hour – dancing with other people, catching eyes across the room. Every time I look up, he's watching me. My dress. My mouth. The curve of my neck. Cataloguing me for later.The cake cutting happens. I skip it – go to the bar inst

Marcus Lopez is the reason I've been showing up to the gym at 6 AM for eight weeks.It's not the fitness. I hate fitness. I hate lunges and I hate burpees and I hate the word activate used in reference to my glutes. I hired a personal trainer because my doctor said my cholesterol was "concerning" and my best friend said my ass was "tragic" and between the two of them I caved and signed up for three sessions a week at a gym that costs more than my car payment.Then I met Marcus.Six-two. Two hundred and ten pounds of muscle that looks sculpted rather than inflated – the body of a man who uses his strength, not just displays it. Brown skin that glows under the gym's fluorescent lights. A fade so sharp it looks architectural. Arms that strain the sleeves of his trainer polo. And a smile – slow, warm, one-sided – that made me forget the word cholesterol and every other word in the English language.He's the gym's most requested trainer. I know why. Every woman in the building watches him

He kneels between my spread legs and eats me – slow, thorough, tasting himself mixed with me. His tongue drags through the mess of arousal and pre-cum, circling my clit while two fingers curl inside me. I cum on the yoga mat with my legs in a split and his face buried in my cunt and the ambient gym music playing something soft and ironic overhead.He pulls me up onto all fours. Enters me from behind on the yoga mat – his cock sliding in easily, my pussy so wet and stretched that he glides in to the hilt in one stroke. He grabs my hips and fucks me – the mat sliding across the floor with each thrust, my knees burning against the rubber."Arch your back," he instructs. Trainer mode, even now. "Drop your chest. Ass higher."I arch. The angle deepens and his cock hits something so deep I yelp. He grips my hair and pulls while his other hand smacks my ass – already red from the weight room – and the sting makes me clench around him."Good form," he pants. "Perfect fucking form."He pulls o