HAPPY | ✔

23.0 BIRTHDAY SEX

🎶BIRTHDAY SEX - Jeremih🎶

"Don't need candles or cake
Just need your body to make you
Birthday sex"

**Because how could I not?**

Elevators were like condominiums for the sexually deprived. In that, for-however-many seconds you've "rented" the confining space with that one person that got you hot beneath it all, all bets were off.

We fumbled into the foyer in a tumble of frenzied hands and lips. I recalled on the one other occasion I had been here, I had liked the fact that his private elevator opened up into a small foyer rather than just spilling directly into the apartment, as what was common for many a penthouse in NYC. Now, not so much.

"Open it," he gruffed.

"Wha-ahh-at?" Miraculously I managed to break up a one sylable word into three. Then again very little was impossible with Daniel Maranzano at the helm. He attached his lips to my neck like a vacuum cleaner and I was struck stupid.

"Open the fücking door Joy."

His fingers snuck into my panties and grasped my püssy plainly.

"Huh?" I was breathing heavy, my chest pumping like an athlete.

"Open. The. Door." I felt the rumble of his chest against my back, his words hissed through clinched teeth. He pried my fingers from his bicep and slammed my hand palm down on the keypad, "Open it right now or I'll fück you right here."

I could feel him grinding his hardness into my äss and wanted to wiggle closer. So what if anyone coming up would get an eyeful. Fück 'em.

He sunk his digits between my lips and rubbed at my clït between his index and middle fingers. I went crosseyed. He took my earlobe between his teeth and pulled whispering the filthiest promise of everything he wanted do to my body tonight. "One, one, two, four-"

"What?"

"For fück sake Joyce, my hands are a little full here," to emphasise his point, lithe fingers delved beneath the tight lining of my bra and squeezed at the same time those down south burrowed in deep enough to have me babblering nonsense.

"Maybe if you'd quit that for a second I could focus!"

Unwilling to complete the tedious task himself, he seemed to give up on it altogether. He began thrusting his fingers inside me to a rythm that had me on the cusp of delirium. Crowding me against the front door, I could hear the ripping of fabric, but it sounded far off, like sirens in the distance. With his hands, his lips, his teeth nibbling at my pulse he had me trapped in an otherworldly cage of sensation.

"Oh ma God!" He dug deep for that unholy spot that made me sing for him, that made my püssy weep and my body convulse.

"Give it to me Joyce. I've been waiting too long for this. Give. It. To. Me." Each word was punctuated by a thrust, the caress of his lips hot against the shell of my ear. I could only groan in bliss. I could feel myself leaking all over his hand. Warm and sticky every time his thick fingers retreated only to plunge right back in.

"Are you serious? Füuuck. Just look at this," he pulled out and spun me around so I could see it too. When he pulled his fingers apart my juices mirrored a cheese pull, "So fücking wet." He sighed out in delightful satisfaction, taking me by the throat, and pushing me up firmly against the metal.

"God, the things I'm going to do to you." He pulled my bottom lip between his teeth and sucked on it. And then he was back inside me, pumping his fingers in and out with renewed vigour. His warm palm plumped my breast pulling and squeezing at the nipple.