20

KILLIAN The expression on Glyndon’s face can only be categorized as the start of a stroke. If it were someone else, I’d be ninety-nine percent willing to shove the situation onto that shelf and move on to other pressing issues. Such as the state of my cock that has, once again, crossed the impulse control red line. This change of events is more blasphemous than when her face was stuffed with my dick as she cried. And the reason is nothing other than making her orgasm. I don’t get pleasure from giving. I don’t even give. I fuck. Often—my release being the endgame. Or I used to before the whole event became a monotonous, pleasureless chore. My previous fuck buddies know that reciprocating isn’t part of my modus operandi, but they still beg to suck my cock anyway. As a certified non-giver, the only reason I thrust my fingers into Glyndon’s cunt was for dominance—nothing more, nothing less. I wasn’t planning on letting her finish and only wanted to drive her to the edge and leave her hangi