Bentley
Fuck me.
I’m dead.
I am so f*****g dead.
I don’t know if I’ve been missing out, or if there’s just something about Hillary Diana f*****g Clarke. She tastes so ravishing, fascinating—like peach and pineapples. I can’t even begin to word how exactly I feel right now; my entire body is shaking, and I just want to devour her completely to quench this hunger tearing through my body.
My glasses are all foggy and wet now, and they are getting in the freaking way, so I snatch them off and fling them aside. I want all of her inside my f*****g mouth, and I don’t hide it.
The need, the want, the pleasure, the desire is tearing me apart, and I’m shaking uncontrollably. What makes it even worse is Hillary’s f*****g high-pitched moans, the way her fingers are clawing at my hair, pushing
