"You serious right now?" Randy's voice dropped, shaking with disbelief as he stared at me.
I offered no reply.
"You texted him?" His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching.
I swallowed hard, remaining silent.
Randy took a step back, a bitter laugh escaping him as his hands settled on his hips. Vince simply stood there, unmoving, observing.
"Unbelievable," Randy muttered, shaking his head. "You think he's the answer to whatever's going on inside you? You think he is gonna help you forget?"
He turned to leave, then paused, his back still facing me. "I'm not giving him a show," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Then he was gone. There were no slammed doors, no shouting, just the distant sound of his truck starting up and pulling away from the curb. I remained frozen in place, watching him go. Vince paused on the porch, his eyes sweeping over me. I wasn't wearing a bra under my thin tank top, nor any panties. My legs were bare, and I could feel the tension and heat radiating from my skin.
"You sure?" he asked, his gaze intense, searching mine.
"Shut up," I retorted as I smiled, pulling him inside with a yank.
I kissed him hard, my mouth desperate against his. His hands immediately found my waist, then slid upwards, tugging at my shirt and finding bare skin beneath. I fumbled with his belt, then tugged his shirt over his head.
"You really want to forget him that badly?" he murmured into my mouth, his breath warm against my lips.
"I want to forget everything."
That was all the prompting he needed. He shoved me back against the wall, ripping my tank top off until my breasts spilled free, and then sucked one nipple into his mouth. His other hand cupped the other breast, fingers rolling and tugging until a soft whimper escaped my lips.
"You needed this," he muttered against my skin, his voice rough. "You're already trembling."
I couldn't deny it; my body was a quivering mess. He shoved his jeans down just enough, lifted one of my legs, and pushed into me in one deep, forceful thrust. I gasped—there was no warmup, no easing in, just thick, fast, and completely filling.
"Oh my God—"
"You're soaked," he growled, his voice guttural. "You want it rough?"
I nodded, my breath catching. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He held me up, fucking me against the wall, one hand gripping my ass, the other still expertly teasing my nipple. I came embarrassingly fast, tightening around him with a sharp cry. He continued to thrust until my body was shaking uncontrollably.
"I'm gonna cum," he muttered.
"Inside of me."
He groaned, slamming in deep, his hips jerking as he came hard, holding me against the wall while his cum flooded inside me.
"Not pulling out," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.
"Good," I breathed, my own voice ragged.
Next, he bent me over the kitchen counter, and without giving me a second to recover, he slid back inside. His cum was already dripping from me, slicking the way for his next entry. His thrusts were deeper this time, more controlled, and his hands spread me open wider.
"You're gonna take every drop," he said, his voice firm. I couldn't speak; I could only moan, already cumming again, my body giving out under his relentless assault.
He fucked me like he had something profound to prove, as if he were trying to erase every other man from my skin. After that, he took me upstairs. He bent me over the sink, making me watch in the mirror while he drove into me from behind. My breasts bounced with every thrust, and my mouth parted in a silent gasp of shock.
"Look at yourself," he commanded. "Look what I’m doing to you."
I watched, my reflection a blur of pleasure and abandon. I came again. He came not long after, grinding deep as he emptied inside me once more. Later, in the shower, he pinned me against the cool tile. I barely had the strength to hold on. He lifted my thigh, entered me again, and fucked me slow and deep while the hot water ran down our bodies. He pressed his forehead to mine as he came, silent this time, but intensely focused. We didn't talk. We moved from room to room—the floor, the stairs, the bed again—his hands everywhere. His mouth was on my breasts, my neck, my inner thighs. At one point, I straddled his face and sobbed through the orgasm, but he didn't stop. He didn't ask for anything; he just gave, took, and gave again.
By the following afternoon, he pulled me out to the back deck.
"Need some air," he muttered, already unzipping.
I didn't argue. He bent me over the railing, pulled my hips back, and slid inside—deep and fast. My nipples brushed the wood as I moaned. He held my waist, pounding into me like we hadn't already fucked through most of the day, plus the night before when we had slept a little bit.
"Still want to forget?" he panted, his breath ragged.
"I don't even remember my name," I gasped, my mind utterly blank.
He laughed, kissed my spine, and came with a shuddering groan. When he pulled out, I was shaking uncontrollably. I showered again.
My skin stung. My thighs ached. My chest was still marked where his mouth had been. He didn't say anything when I walked out of the bathroom wrapped in my towel. Neither did I. I passed him in silence—sore, sore everywhere, full of him, my head blank, and my body utterly spent. But I was no closer to forgetting.
I still wanted and needed Randy.
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