The Son of Mr. Suleman by Eric Jerome Dickey

Author:Eric Jerome Dickey [Dickey, Eric Jerome]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-04-20T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 42

Hair styled like Misty Knight with a T as her cosplay uniform, eyes wild, Gemma Buckingham panted, craned her neck, looked back at me in my Power Man T, focused on my green eyes as she touched my hands, hands choking her neck harder, harder. She nodded she wanted more. In Luke Cage mode I stroked her at a steady pace, the cadence of a rapid heartbeat. Skin slapped, the bed rocked, the walls shook, and her wild hair bounced same as mine. I grunted like a man losing the plot one stroke at a time. She twisted her body, brought her tongue to mine. I added deep, wild kisses to the mix.

Orgasm frenzied her, its riptides yanked her under, had her stressed for drops of fresh air as her body shivered head to toe. She tensed against its power but was consumed by the surges of electricity, the crashing waves. She fell away from me, left my beard dank with honey from London. I watched her. Waves died down, became twitches, then spasms that lessened. She needed a break. I washed my face and came back. She was still panting, sweating, twitching. I got on top, took her missionary.

“Pi . . . Pi . . . oh, Pi . . . I . . . I . . . I’m going to come again.”

Soon she was on the suite’s plush sofa, on her back, legs hanging over the edges, open wide so I could tongue love Delicious while she worked her gag reflex at the same time. Her phone was on the table, recording our session. I changed positions, gave her big daddy long strokes, put her feet on my chest, sucked her toes, then pulled out as she was at the end of body-quivering, Jesus-calling, Afro-pulling orgasm eleven, because I was calling God too. With a caveman grunt I grabbed her ’fro and brought her mouth to the fountain to have communion; she greedily hurried her full lips to my erection. Stroked and sucked and stroked and sucked until I grunted louder and moaned and lost control and tried to feed it all to her, made love to her face the way she liked it, the intense way she demanded it, this her ultimate challenge, to take it all, and I came so hard I almost fell off the sofa and passed out.

“Jesus, what was that all ’bout and can you please do it again, but not now.”

I didn’t want to leave here.

We were in the London West Hollywood at Beverly Hills, ordering room service, smashing up the place. We could’ve been at a Motel 6 somewhere on a dusty section of Route 66 for all I cared.

All I wanted to do was avoid the lazy man’s load I’d left in the 901.

“You’re bloody different here too, Pi.”

“How so?”

“Uninhibited.”

“Like you’re different in Memphis than you are in London.”

She fluffed her magnificent Afro. “No one I know in London would recognize me here.”

“You said you want to see more of the South.

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