Play Dirty By Sandra Brown Novels & Stories

I thought about Sebastian again and his cold voice after saying this didn't mean anything and I just wanted to see what it was like, but it meant something to me, it meant something and I didn't know what to do with that. I reached over and grabbed a dirty T-shirt off the floor and wiped my stomach and my chest, the fabric rough and cold and I didn't care, then I pulled up my boxers and my jeans and did up the button and the belt with my hands still shaking a little. I rolled onto my side and pulled my knees up on the lumpy mattress where the sheet was damp with sweat and come and I didn't care about any of it, I just closed my eyes and Sebastian was still there behind my lids and in my ches

She looked at Justin, who wiped his mouth, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face, Debby seemingly forgotten. “Fine,” Sandra said, standing up. She pulled her top off in one swift motion, then shimmied out of her skirt. She stood naked in the center of the circle, her body confident and proud. “You.” She pointed at Brody. “On the floor. On your back.” She pointed at Justin. “You. Behind me.” Brody lay down, already freeing his hard cock. Justin stood, unzipping his jeans, his eyes locked on Sandra’s ass.

The warm cloth moved over my swollen pussy lips, cleaning away the mess of our combined juices while his fingers occasionally brushed my still-sensitive clit. Every touch sent little jolts through my body and I let out a soft whimper. “This is part of it too, Freya. I use this pussy when I want, and then I take care of it afterward. That’s the full dynamic now.” I bit my lip hard as he continued cleaning me so intimately, spreading me open a little more so he could wipe every fold. “It feels dirty when you touch me like this after you just fucked me so rough,” I admitted, my voice breathy. “But I like it.

Sandy completed my sentence for me, “Imagining what we were doing at the club…and imagining what she wishes she had the courage to…do with us.” “You think?” I said rather doubtfully. “Does the Pope wear a pointed hat?” “I don’t know…fantasy and real life are sometimes pretty far apart.” Sandy snickered, “Boy are you an easy mark, not only has she spent the night imagining this stuff, but she’s obviously put some pretty serious mileage on that little vibrator of hers.” “And how would you know that?” “I guess you didn’t see the old batteries in her trash can along with the plastic wrappers for a new set?”

"Feel how deep I am? I'm in the mess they made. And I'm going to add to it. You're going to carry all of us home tonight." I whimper behind his hand, while my nails dig into his back. He starts to move in long strokes that pull all the way back and push all the way in. Every re-entry makes a wet, filthy squelch that the water doesn't hide. The cum of two men froths around his cock, leaking out of me, clouding the water between us. "Dirty girl," he says. "Stuffed full and still wanting more. Still squeezing me like you weren’t just fucked."

My clit was throbbing against Dominic’s pelvis every time I rocked forward, oversensitive and swollen from how many times they’d already made me explode. But the next one hit like a freight train. No warning, just a sudden, white-hot wave that crashed over me so hard my elbows buckled. I cried out, my walls clamping down so violently around both of them. “This is eight, baby" Damian rasped, his fingers digging bruises into my hips as he kept pounding. "Fuck, our perfect little slut fuck can’t even count straight.” Dominic’s hands slid up my sides, cupping my swaying tits and pinching my nipples hard enough to make me jolt. “Good. Let her lose it. We’re just getting started, baby. Jarrett’s g

His free hand dipped into her leggings, finding her panties soaked. "Fuck, you're wet," he said, fingers circling her clit through the fabric. She bucked, moaning his name. The realism hit her—the scratch of the rug, the pop of embers, his stubble rasping her skin. No fantasy; this was Max, the guy who'd bandaged her scraped knees, now unraveling her.

“Lock the door behind me. Eat the damn pizza. Shower. Try not to spontaneously combust. I’ll be back.” True to her word, Sandra returned three hours later, arms laden not just with more snacks (ice cream this time), but with fuzzy blankets, her favorite ridiculously cheesy rom-com DVDs, and a determined glint in her eye. “Operation Brain Scrub commences,” she announced. “No talk of emotionally stunted exes or current chaos agents. Only terrible dialogue, predictable plots, and excessive amounts of dairy.”

She can pretend vanilla’s her favorite, but I see the dirty minx underneath. I pound into the woman. She squeaks, moans, cums all over me, soaking wet and slippery. But I’m not getting off. I pull out, frustrated and angry. One girl dives in to lick her clean. The other kneels and cleans me off with her mouth. A month ago, this would’ve had me ready again. Now, I’m just over it. It’s going to take time to figure out how to climax again. Somehow, Sandra’s gotten under my skin, into my head, wrapped herself around the part of me that’s used to winning—and now she’s squeezing so tight I’m forgetting what control feels like.

The words replaying in my head were “whore amongst us.” Someone knew about my past and was going to expose me. I opened my mouth to speak, tell Mario about my dirty past, and get it over with before things got out of proportion, but the words were stuck in my throat. I am afraid of how he would take my revelation, afraid of the look of disgust that would replace his affectionate gaze. From all indications, Mario did not read the letter, or did he? My heart was beating so fast. His words, “I want you, replayed in my head.” I looked at him and croaked, “You want to be with me?”