Danton had nearly vomited right there in the hedges.
It wasn't fair.
It was grotesquely, comically unfair.
Even half-hard, it had looked obscene—thick as Delilah's wrist, ridged with veins, the flushed head already glistening with pre-cum that she had eagerly licked away like it was ambrosia. The kind of cock that didn't belong on a seventeen-year-old. The kind that should be locked away where it couldn't ruin lives.
How was any man supposed to compete with that?
How was Danton—perfect, pedigreed Danton with his respectable six-and-a-half inches and his trust fund—supposed to measure up to a weaponised battering ram like that?
And Delilah had looked at it like she'd found religion.
Had wrapped both hands around it—both hands, and still had inches left—and stroked him with reverent awe while she ground her soaked cunt against his shin like a desperate animal.
