eyes watching every undulation. All that wildness she objectified in him, it was coursing through her now. She felt powerful and ferocious, owning this man, and as not a single drop of wine had been drunk, she couldn’t blame her brazenness on alcohol. This was something even stronger, something mammalian and ancient and hot as sin.
He looked hypnotized, lost in the spell her body was casting. Her excitement mounted, gathering deep and low against the slick friction. She’d only come a couple of times this way, without touching her clit, and it had turned her inside-out.
“Lay back.”
He did and she dropped to her palms, seeking the right pressure, chasing that hot, angry hum in her cunt. Her eyes roamed his skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his clenched abdomen, the knitting of muscle between his pecs and along his ribs. All at once her hips were driving, this sex feeling like an out-of-body experience.
His gaze was electric, nailed between them. “Yeah, use that dick. Fuck me.”
She buried her face against his neck. “You feel so good.”
“Love the way you fuck me, honey.”
Honey. So close. “Say my name.”
“Laurel.”
Pleasure burst open inside her. “Yeah.”
“You gonna come on me?”
She nodded, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed to his throat. She tried to say yes, to say his name back, to say anything, but all that came was a mewling, frightened yelp of a moan, as all at once she was bearing down on release.
“Yeah, come on my dick. Use me, Laurel.”
She did. He was everything—a hard cock, a gorgeous body, the man who shocked and comforted and irked and supported her, all of it feeling so starkly plain, sweet and bestial, at once a Valentine and pornography. The pleasure spiked, leveled, spiked, leveled, and she chased the orgasm so hard she thought her hips might seize up, but then—
“Oh God. Oh God.”
“Come on, honey. Do it.”
She already was. A shrieking, shuddering possession of a climax, like the kind she got through her clit, only tripled. Time slipped away as she rode the sensations—more a bucking bronco than a soothing ocean tide—and she didn’t know what she said, what he said in return. She was aware only of their bodies and, in time, the feel of his arm in her grip, and the sight of his skin beneath her raking nails. She pulled her hand back, half expecting blood. But no, merely marks.
“Jesus.”
He smiled, looking so amused and so patient, sprawled beneath her. “Good?”
“Crazy.”
“Glad to hear it. Turn over.”
She did, legs like noodles. He pushed inside, gruff, one hand on her hip and the other splayed across her lower back. In seconds flat it was rough again, so right and essential. With every thrust he tugged her hard to him, feeling ten feet tall behind her, unspeakably strong. She wanted more of him, more of every fucking thing about this man.
She arched her back. “Hold my hair.”
He gathered it in a fist.
“Yeah.”
“You need another?”
“I won’t be greedy.”
“Bullshit. You take what you want.” If men could have multiple orgasms, he’d said once, sex would take a fucking week.
“Touch me, then,” she said. Unwilling to give up that cruel hand in her hair, she rose up on her knees. She held her breath, waiting until she felt those rough fingertips on her clit, the contact like a whip crack.
“Light,” she panted. “Light, to start.”
“Love when you get bossy,” he teased, hips punishing.
He gave her exactly what she needed—the barest whisper of friction at first, then a little quicker, a little more pressure as her nerves recovered. She got lost in the feel of his body owning hers—his hard belly against her ass, the filthy, exquisite intrusion of his cock. Got lost in the mean tug of his grip in her hair and the deft caresses of his fingers on her clit.
She came hard and deep, groaning. His fingers kept on stroking, cock still pounding, and just when she thought the sensation was going to rip her
He looked hypnotized, lost in the spell her body was casting. Her excitement mounted, gathering deep and low against the slick friction. She’d only come a couple of times this way, without touching her clit, and it had turned her inside-out.
“Lay back.”
He did and she dropped to her palms, seeking the right pressure, chasing that hot, angry hum in her cunt. Her eyes roamed his skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his clenched abdomen, the knitting of muscle between his pecs and along his ribs. All at once her hips were driving, this sex feeling like an out-of-body experience.
His gaze was electric, nailed between them. “Yeah, use that dick. Fuck me.”
She buried her face against his neck. “You feel so good.”
“Love the way you fuck me, honey.”
Honey. So close. “Say my name.”
“Laurel.”
Pleasure burst open inside her. “Yeah.”
“You gonna come on me?”
She nodded, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed to his throat. She tried to say yes, to say his name back, to say anything, but all that came was a mewling, frightened yelp of a moan, as all at once she was bearing down on release.
“Yeah, come on my dick. Use me, Laurel.”
She did. He was everything—a hard cock, a gorgeous body, the man who shocked and comforted and irked and supported her, all of it feeling so starkly plain, sweet and bestial, at once a Valentine and pornography. The pleasure spiked, leveled, spiked, leveled, and she chased the orgasm so hard she thought her hips might seize up, but then—
“Oh God. Oh God.”
“Come on, honey. Do it.”
She already was. A shrieking, shuddering possession of a climax, like the kind she got through her clit, only tripled. Time slipped away as she rode the sensations—more a bucking bronco than a soothing ocean tide—and she didn’t know what she said, what he said in return. She was aware only of their bodies and, in time, the feel of his arm in her grip, and the sight of his skin beneath her raking nails. She pulled her hand back, half expecting blood. But no, merely marks.
“Jesus.”
He smiled, looking so amused and so patient, sprawled beneath her. “Good?”
“Crazy.”
“Glad to hear it. Turn over.”
She did, legs like noodles. He pushed inside, gruff, one hand on her hip and the other splayed across her lower back. In seconds flat it was rough again, so right and essential. With every thrust he tugged her hard to him, feeling ten feet tall behind her, unspeakably strong. She wanted more of him, more of every fucking thing about this man.
She arched her back. “Hold my hair.”
He gathered it in a fist.
“Yeah.”
“You need another?”
“I won’t be greedy.”
“Bullshit. You take what you want.” If men could have multiple orgasms, he’d said once, sex would take a fucking week.
“Touch me, then,” she said. Unwilling to give up that cruel hand in her hair, she rose up on her knees. She held her breath, waiting until she felt those rough fingertips on her clit, the contact like a whip crack.
“Light,” she panted. “Light, to start.”
“Love when you get bossy,” he teased, hips punishing.
He gave her exactly what she needed—the barest whisper of friction at first, then a little quicker, a little more pressure as her nerves recovered. She got lost in the feel of his body owning hers—his hard belly against her ass, the filthy, exquisite intrusion of his cock. Got lost in the mean tug of his grip in her hair and the deft caresses of his fingers on her clit.
She came hard and deep, groaning. His fingers kept on stroking, cock still pounding, and just when she thought the sensation was going to rip her
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