Free The Last Street Novel by Omar Tyree

have that little girl vibe no more. So I’m not changing my words. I meant that shit.”
    Cynthia sat there, stunned into silence, wondering what she had gotten herself into. She opened her mouth and whimpered, “Okay.” And that was it. She would lay down and submit to him.
    Shareef leaned back in his chair again and was satisfied. He said, “I’m glad we understand each other.” Then he looked around for their waiter. “Now where is this guy at? He should have returned with our drinks and taken our food orders by now.”
    But Cynthia was no longer thinking about the food and drink. She was thinking about his dick, how long it was, how hard, and how strong was his stroke?

    A T SEVENTEEN MINUTES after midnight, up on the twenty-second floor, inside the Author’s Suite at the Sheraton, Shareef showed the sexy young woman what he meant by fucking. He locked her legs back and over his arms and shoulders while he bulldozed into her sweet spot, enjoying her squeals.
    “Uunnhhh! Uunnhhh! Oohh! Oohh! Oooohhh!”
    She had no idea the man would give it to her that strongly. Her plan was to romance him, take him to bed, sex him good, get what she could get out of it, and make a strong pitch to him for a new book idea. But Shareef had flipped the script and showed her that he was much more than a mental specimen. He was physical. Extremely physical. And he wanted to prove it to her.
    To lessen the impact, she tried in vain to steady his strokes with the force of her arms and hands against his chest. But with his ramrod posture and muscle mass, even her strongest push was like trying to move an elephant. Then she felt herself arriving at full climax and lost it. She tried to scratch his back to help him share in the pain and pleasure that he was giving her. Shareef, however, could not allow the scratches. So he grabbed her hands in his, aware that she was coming, and he allowed himself to settle into her spot until she had released the glory, torture, and toil of heaven, hell, and earth.
    When she came, the nut was stronger than words could explain. Only images could explain the bliss she felt. There were flurries of inch-long snowflakes that fell from the hotel ceiling and landed on Cynthia’s face, sizzling into perspiration on contact, creating a sheet of soothing sweat that ran into the pillows under her head. And just when she thought it was over, Shareef amassed a second nut inside of her. And then a third.
    What the fuck is he on? she asked herself. This writer was turning her out like some new drug that was too addictive to sell to the public. It was for private use only, and at each woman’s personal risk. He had taken her to cloud nine and then tripled it to cloud twenty-seven. And the only space shuttle strong enough to bring the sex-induced woman back to planet earth was Shareef’s own nut.
    He dropped her legs to the bed and pulled their bodies together to tighten their senses, like a human vise, while the burn built up inside of him and released itself through his holy extension. Then he let her know about it.
    “Ooh, shit, this pussy, this pussy,” he mumbled into her ear as his seed squirted and squeezed and jerked out of him.
    Overwhelmingly pleased with his performance, Cynthia calmed herself and spoke back.
    “Was it good, baby? Did you like it?”
    In his response, Shareef chuckled, with his full naked body trembling against hers on the comfortable, king-sized bed.
    “Did I like it?” he asked rhetorically. He pushed his lips into her right ear and said, “I loved it. I love fuckin’. You hear me. I said, I love fuckin’.”
    Cynthia laughed in between her breaths. She had no idea how raw he would be. But she was pleased with him, very pleased, and she wouldn’t mind fucking him again. All he had to do was ask her for it.
    Instead of lighting up and sharing a cigarette, which he never smoked, Shareef turned over on his back and freed his mind.
    He said, “Women have no idea how strong pussy is to