Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
I don’t think.
I don’t know what happens, but I have to obey my body’s need to get closer to him. It’s more compulsion than anything, and he’s already reaching for me, so I go. I free-fall off the edge of the cushioned bench, allowing him to catch me, easing me into a straddle on his lap, while my mouth moves in frantic communication with his, tasting myself in between gasps for air, gravity pressing the sensitive juncture of my thighs to the denim ridge of his erection.
“That was so good,” I say unevenly, rolling my hips. I’m babbling and I know it, but I don’t care. It’s Dean. My Dean. “Oh my God, that felt so good. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me when you taste like pure sugar,” he rasps into a kiss, his palm smacking lightly off my ass like a sweet admonishment, and lust erupts inside of me, from some dormant volcano deep inside, all reserved for him.
“Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my fingers already scrambling for the hem.
“You’re naked except for my badges.” His head falls back on a pained wince, those hips lifting, bringing my knees a few inches off the floor. “Believe me, you can do whatever you want.”
I pull the shirt up and over his head, the intoxication of what’s happening only getting headier, more urgent, thanks to his upper torso. The strained musculature of his shoulders, the thickness of his pecs. His hands are propped on the floor behind his hips, making his biceps pop, and I’m suddenly more positive than ever that this is happening.
“I waited a long time for you,” I hiccup against his mouth, my palms dragging down the front of his body to the fly of his jeans, flicking open the button, his chest starting to heave roughly against me, as if he senses the direction I’m taking, his glazed eyes opening to study me while I kiss him. “Is it okay with you if I don’t wait anymore?”
“You want me inside you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
Every time I think Dean can’t get any hotter, he does something to prove me wrong. Like now, when he falls backward, his sweaty chest rising and falling in an erotic dance of shadows while he digs into his pocket, taking out his wallet. A condom. “Go ahead, then. Take out my cock if you need it so bad.” He rips the condom foil open with his teeth. “You can’t need it half as bad as I need that wet pussy.”
I make a sound through my teeth, my fingers clumsy on his zipper. I have to focus to get the metal teeth down and over the bulge—and that’s where my focus dies. RIP. Because there’s Dean, long and thick in my hands. I’m stroking him instinctively while he moans, his head back, his neck tendons straining. I’ve never put a condom on before, but I’ve seen it demonstrated online, plus once on a banana courtesy of some drunk friends. But all I want in this life is to get Dean inside of me, so I take the halo from his fingers and roll the thin layer of latex down his shaft, whimpering when he reaches out to help me, the sight of his hand on his own dick brutally hot.
Protection in place, Dean jackknifes and consumes my mouth, his hands on my ass, urging me higher on my knees, giving us just enough room, just enough to press the head into my entrance and sink deep. Oh God, oh God, oh God, he fills me so deep, and I gasp his name into the crook of his neck, nothing to compare this to. This feeling of total connection with him, his body, my body. There’s only the smallest idea of pain, but it’s devoured by his mouth on mine, his intense focus on me, the realization that I am having sex with Dean. That his want for me is so real, I can feel it buried between my legs.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, breaking the kiss to scrutinize me with concern. “Babe, you’re so tight.”
“I love it. I love it. No, it doesn’t hurt.” I scoot as much as humanly possible in his lap, burying my heels into the area rug behind him to drag myself closer, his shaft deeper, biting his shoulder when he groans a shaky curse, his abs hollowing violently against mine.
“Margot. Jesus Christ.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good. Good. So good. Move, please, if you can. Just move . . .” That last word ends on a moan when I stir my hips in a circle, testing the sensation and the slippery friction of my still-sensitive clit against the root of him, the way he throbs in response. His face twisting in a mask of pleasure/pain is so intimate, I have to do it again. And again. It’s almost like a game that both of us are winning. We’re on the same side, and that requires us to watch each other closely, identify the motion of our bodies that feels the best . . . and oh, when we do that, we stay just like that, my hips riding up, down, up the length of him while his thumb dips down into the place we’re joined and strokes me extra fast, even while his gaze is intent on my face, his hips working up and back beneath me. So much at once.