Octavia Red

Octavia heard Jax crying on the phone. That girl dumped him, said he hurt her. Bullshit. Jax never hurt anybody. She dropped next to him on the couch, pulled his head to her shoulder, let him soak her shirt with tears. “Why are they scared of me?” he asked, voice cracking. “Soon as I drop my clothes they run like I got the damn plague.” Between sobs he muttered he must be fat, ugly, repulsive. She stared at him, trying to figure the angle. Then she told him to stand up and take his pants off—wanted to see what scared them. Zipper down. Jeans puddled at his ankles. Out flopped something heavy, veined, thick as her forearm and already half-hard. Everything clicked. Not his face, not his weight—that slab of meat was the problem. “Let me,” she said, sliding to her knees. She wrapped both hands around it, stroked once, then opened wide. The head barely fit past her teeth. She gagged, pulled back, spit dripping down the shaft. Then she stood, shoved him onto the couch and straddled him, guiding that monster between her legs. She sank an inch, then another, jaw clenched, until her ass met his thighs. Rode him hard, breath hissing between her teeth, sweat running between her tits. He flipped her onto her back, fucked her deep enough to bruise, then spun her again and took her from behind until the couch legs scraped the floor. When he was close he yanked out, dragged her face to him and came in thick ropes across her cheeks, lips, lashes. Jax wiped his eyes on his forearm, half-laughing, the ache in his chest already fading. All because his friend didn’t flinch.