International Manwhore – Part 15

Everyone in this story is 18+

Adrien’s finger stayed exactly where it was—one knuckle deep, crooked just enough to keep that spot singing—while his other hand kept lazily rolling my nipple between thumb and forefinger like he was tuning an instrument only he could hear.

I was already half-hard again, which should have been impossible. My body had apparently filed for independence from common sense.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Stay right there, chéri. Let me play.”

Another finger joined the first, opening slow, stretching me open with the patience of someone who had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Water sloshed around us every time my hips tried to chase more. He let me, then took it away, then gave it back twice as deep until I was rocking between his hands like a boat with no anchor.

When he finally pulled out I whined—actually whined—and he chuckled, low and fond, and stood. Water streamed off him in sheets, running down the grooves of his abs, catching in the dark hair at the base of his very interested dick. He offered me a hand.

I took it. My legs felt like Jello. As he led me back into his suite.

Inside the suite the air was cool, scented faintly of cedar and whatever ridiculously expensive candle he burned when he wanted to fuck rich people. He didn’t bother with lights; the glow from the jacuzzi through the open glass wall painted everything in shifting turquoise.

Adrien pushed me gently until the backs of my knees hit the low, wide bed. Then he dropped to his knees between my thighs like he belonged there.

I slid off the mattress, knelt in front of him, wrapped a hand around the thick base of his length, and leaned in. First lick—salty skin, faint chlorine, pure him. I took the head between my lips, tongue flattening the way Jules had shown me, and Adrien rewarded me with a soft exhale and fingers threading gently through my wet hair.

Two minutes in he tugged me off with a soft pop.

“Non, non,” he said, voice velvet. “Tonight I’m greedy.”

He pushed me flat on my back, spread my thighs wide, and went down on me again like a man starved. Lips sealed tight, tongue doing wicked figure-eights, throat opening without warning until his nose was buried in the wet hair at my groin. He stayed there—impossibly long—swallowing around me until my vision blurred at the edges, then surfaced only to dive again.

While my brain was busy trying not to die, his hand snaked between my legs and two fingers slid back inside, curling, stretching. A third joined. I lost the ability to form words that weren’t his name.

He pulled off my dick with a wet sound, kissed a path down my balls, over my taint, and then—Jesus—his tongue was on my hole. Flat, warm, relentless licks that had me spreading wider without being asked. He licked like he was trying to memorize the taste, like it was his favorite dessert and he’d been denied it for years. Every time I tried to push back he pressed a palm to the small of my back and held me still, forcing me to take it exactly how he wanted.

Fingers came back—three, then four—twisting, spreading, opening me up while his tongue speared inside alongside them. He reached around with his free hand and started jerking me in the same slow rhythm, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke, spreading the mess I was already making.

I have no idea how long that went on. Time stopped existing. There was only his mouth, his hands, the wet sounds, my own ragged breathing, and the growing, frantic need to be filled.

“Please,” I heard myself say, voice cracked open. “Adrien—fuck—I—need you inside me, please—”

He lifted his head, lips shiny, eyes wild. “Beg properly.”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Please fuck me. Need it. Need you. Please.”

He kissed me—softer this time, tasting like me and like sin—and rolled me onto my stomach. I had started to push up on all fours, expecting the obvious angle, but his hands stopped me, turned me over again.

“No,” he said. “I want to watch your face.”

He pushed my knees to my chest, folded me nearly in half, opened me with his thumbs, and pressed the blunt head of his dick against me. No condom—both of us too far gone to care tonight. He sank in my opened hole, slow, relentless, eyes locked on mine the entire time. The stretch burned bright, then melted into something so full I forgot how to breathe. He didn’t give me time to adjust—just started moving in long, deep strokes that dragged over every nerve ending I’d discovered in the last seventy-two hours of frantic Amazon training.

Every thrust was angled just right, like he’d been born knowing exactly how to take me apart. He leaned down, kissed me messy and open-mouthed while he fucked me, one hand tormenting my nipple again, the other braced beside my head so he could watch every flicker across my face.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and tried to meet him thrust for thrust, but he controlled the pace, slow and devastating, until I was babbling in two languages and clawing at his back.

Eventually he pulled out, flipped us so he was on his back, and guided me to straddle him. I sank down again—easier now, greedy—and started riding like I’d been doing it forever. The angle was obscene; every drop of my hips drove him exactly where I needed. My hands braced on his chest, his thumbs digging into my hipbones, and I rode him hard, chasing the second orgasm that was already brewing tight.

When it hit I bowed forward, mouth open against his collarbone, whole body seizing as I shot between us in thick, helpless stripes. Adrien’s hands clamped on my ass, holding me down, grinding up into me until the last spasm passed and I was limp, dripping sweat onto his skin.

He was still hard inside me.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, voice ragged for the first time all night.

I didn’t think. I just slid off him, dropped between his thighs, and took him as deep as I could. I used every trick I’d ever been taught and every new one he’d just shown me—tongue flat, throat relaxed, hand twisting at the base. He lasted maybe ninety seconds before his hips snapped up, fingers tight in my hair, and he fed me the thickest, saltiest load I’d ever swallowed. I didn’t spill a drop. I even licked him clean after, surprised at how much I liked the taste—brine and skin and something that reminded me of the sea just outside the glass. He really didn’t fuck me, he did make love to me.

He pulled me up, tucked me against his chest, legs tangled, heartbeats slowing together. The sheets were cool against my overheated skin, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my back.

Somewhere in the haze I remembered there was a mission, an earpiece, a world-ending money laundering, and a British asshole waiting for my check-in.

All of it felt very far away.

I was asleep before the thought finished forming, wrapped around Adrien like he was the only solid thing left in the universe.