3
EMILY
Wyatt, no Mr. Blake, laid beside me sound asleep. On his stomach as he was, his face was turned toward me, his mouth open. His cheeks were ruddy from his exertions, dark whiskers covered his jaw I remembered scraping across my inner thighs. I lifted myself up on my elbows and saw the broad expanse of his back, all tanned skin and toned muscle. His bottom was well formed and I had a hankering to run my palm over it, then squeeze it. But the man was quite different in his sleep, all quiet and peaceful. No surprise or anger marred his brow. No strong grip to show off his domination. No swollen c**k to drive him--and me--beyond reason.
Quietly sliding from bed, I felt his seed slip out of me and down my thighs. It was so plentiful I grabbed a clean cloth by the ewer and basin to rem
