I’m a visual guy. I won’t deny it. If you gave me the choice between a video and a piece of erotica, I’d choose the video every time. I wouldn’t care if the fiction was a literary fucking masterpiece, there’s just something about seeing two plump lips wrapped around a cock—taking one for the team—that’ll win that prize every time. I almost wanted to give the girl a hug.
It didn’t take long until I was begging for release. In fact, I’d say this girl had done this once or twice before. She stood and pulled a condom from her purse, ripping it open in haste. Slipping it onto me, she discarded the foil on the floor. I yanked up her skirt and pressed my fingers inside of her, ensuring she was ready.
I’d seen this done in the movies—I’m pretty sure Armond did it in book two, as well—and even though this woman couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred and twenty pounds, this was a hell of a lot harder than I thought it’d be. I pulled her up onto me, fumbling and crashing against the wall. Three minutes passed before my arms started burning at the attempt to keep her in place. By that point, I was so far gone that I just wanted this whole thing to be done with. It was sexy, but it was exhausting.
I pumped into her, keeping one hand gripping her knee and the other against the wall behind her shoulder. She yelped in pain—in pleasure—over and over, crying the name Christoph.
“Fuck,” I muttered, feeling the orgasm build. That was another thing I’d have to reconsider when writing sex scenes: Having an orgasm while standing? Not. Fucking. Easy. I was so focused on keeping her upright, keeping my dick from slipping out, making sure that if anyone walked in the door that I was being quiet enough, all the while still thrusting, still breathing, still trying to keep my facial expression somewhat attractive as I hit the peak, that I wasn’t really concentrating on blowing my load. And dammit, my arms were about to burst into fucking flames.
“Sí, sí Armond,” she whispered.
And that’s all it took. I didn’t have to come up with the perfect character response. And I didn’t have to plan the dialogue, timeline, or worry about the flow of my narrative. The world that Christoph Strong lived in wasn’t something I’d created—it was real—and it surrounded me at that very moment.
I snapped. I stopped thinking about the pain; I stopped worrying about whether or not someone would walk in. I was no longer concerned with whether or not I’d say the right thing or be the right person. I stopped thinking about writing the character, and became him.
I nipped ferociously at her bottom lip, grating my teeth against it as she cried out again. A sneer spread across on my face as I grabbed the backs of her thighs, slapping them against the tile. The velvety skin of her thighs displayed before me, like the in-flight wings of a monarch as I pinned the beautiful creature against the wall.