Pussyache

“You’re either going to have to stop screwing me so hard . . .” I smirked at Jake, “ . . . or you’re going to have to buy me a rubber ring. These chairs aren’t good for pussyache.” “Pussyache?” Jake scoffed knowing exactly what I was doing. “Tell me how you have pussyache when I just fucked your arse into another continent?”

Eyes. Orgasms. Dick. All were easily forgettable. Right? Wrong. She didn’t need this headache. Or was pussyache more appropriate?

Towering in front of her with those fuck-me, chiseled facial features and more muscles than an anatomy textbook. Who the hell did he think he was? Giving her the most confusing pussyache of a lifetime.