Driving Her Wild

by Meg Maguire

She could feel him now—really feel him, with only the thin cotton of his boxers in the way. Steph wasn’t a size-ist, but she had to admit, with his thick length wrapped in her fist, there was something to be said for a big man. Maybe it didn’t make any difference in a guy’s physical prowess, but psychologically... Yeah, it was exciting. She explored him with long strokes, loving the way he responded, fingers shaking faintly, breaths stilted by tiny grunts.

  Her touch had him helpless and she took the opportunity to explore him in the ways she’d been fantasizing about. She leaned in close and put her lips to his throat. She wanted to feel his pulse thrumming, smell his skin and hair. She kissed his ear and he shivered. She kissed his neck and felt his moan vibrating through both their bodies. Normally she liked being the dominated one, with a lover, but the power she felt in coaxing his reactions was thrilling, too.

  “You feel good,” she murmured.

  The hand holding hers went still, distraction furrowing his brow.

  She kissed his shoulder. “You okay?”

  “You said you’ve got nerve damage. Can you feel me, now?”

  “I can. My fingers go pins-and-needles sometimes, but not constantly.” She smiled at him, charmed by his concern. “What about you?” Letting his cock go, she took his hand and led it to the exposed skin above her bra cup, those hard fingertips rousing her with callused whispers. “Can you feel me?”

  He cupped her with his broad palm, the gruffness of the gesture stealing her breath.

  “I can feel you enough.” He gave her breast a squeeze. “You’re warm. And soft.”

  She blushed, pleased. Usually Steph only received the sorts of compliments athletic girls did—firm, tight, fit. She never got called soft. Yet that was exactly how she felt in Patrick’s arms. Feminine, even a touch vulnerable. She rubbed his chest and hard belly, admiring the contrast of his size and strength, his heat.

  She slipped a hand inside the bottom hem of his shirt, stroking his abdomen. “Where on earth did an out-of-work carpenter steal this body from?”

  He laughed. “You’re meeting me in desperate dating mode. I was a bit squishier this time last year. I was starting to worry I was the only person who’d ever see me naked again for the rest of my life, so thanks for noticing.”

  “Alone for the rest of your life? A handsome guy like you?”

  He shrugged and kissed her nose, seeming relieved for the chance to catch his breath. “I always thought I was pretty okay-looking, but the past few months haven’t exactly validated that assumption. Until tonight.”

  “I bet I know why you’ve had rotten luck,” Steph said, sitting up straight and propping her elbow on the back of the couch.

  “Please, clue me in.”

  She traced his collarbone through the cotton. “You’re too nice. I bet you tell a girl you like her the second you feel it.”

  He blinked. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I bet you say things like, ‘I think this date’s going really well.’”

  “Maybe. Definitely. That’s bad?” He snatched her hand away, big fingers lacing with her small ones. “I’d want to be told if someone was digging me.”

  “It’s sweet—it’s just not really the normal way anymore. We’re living in an age where the internet assaults us with variety. And possibility. People are slower to commit, I think, because they never know what the next browsing session might bring.”

  “That’s a downer...but I don’t doubt it.”

  “And as refreshing as your blunt approach is, a lot of women aren’t used to that. There’s a lot more wheedling and waiting and deciphering, these days. They might not know how to even react to a guy who’s just, ‘Hey, I like you.’ Maybe that comes off like a game in itself.”

  Patrick sighed, then kissed each of her fingertips in turn.

  “The only reason I’ve been so blunt with you about what I’m after,” she said, “is because you set the tone to be painfully honest right away. We’ve stumbled into a rare bubble of crystal-clear intentions.”

  He grinned. “Then we better not waste it.”

  Arousal coursed through her at his firm touch—at the gentle push of his hands, the weight of his body as he urged her onto her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist, so excited she felt drunk. She grabbed at his hem, jerking it up to his armpits until he leaned back and stripped off the shirt for her. She raked his back with her nails as he got settled above her, and he sucked in a breath of surprise and excitement.

  “Tell me if I’m going too far,” he murmured.

  He pressed against her lips through the two thin layers, hard as a man could get. Insistent with promises or pleas. And she wanted exactly what he did, and had the condoms on hand to make it happen.

  She begged for his motions, tugging at his hips with the rhythm she craved, ignoring her hamstring’s plaintive twinge. He took her hints, stroking his erection along her seam through their underwear with long, steady thrusts. Not missing a beat, he lowered to his elbows with a surrendering sigh, and buried his face against her throat. She met each of his thrusts with a tilt of her hips, and with every crest of that hot friction, she wanted him worse. She wanted his body owning hers, wanted his voice in her ears, his skin warm and slick on hers. Wanted to lose herself against him then watch as he came undone from this same violent need. She spurred him with her hands—faster, rougher. And he gave it all.

  Suddenly he moaned, pushing up on straight arms, then sitting back on his heels. His arousal was a blush along his neck and blooming at his cheeks, right to the tip of his nose and his flushed lips. He cupped himself in a still hand, catching his breath. His chest rose and fell with desperate breaths, and she craved whatever impulses he was fighting to contain. She’d been too hesitant before and now he was holding back, for her sake surely, when all she wanted was to feel a man’s rough and graceless lust plundering her body.

  She stroked his thighs. “I want this, if you do.”

  “I do...” He laughed, then cleared his throat. “I want this so much, I need to stop a minute, before I lose myself.”

  “Oh.” She had to bite back a grin. So it was a wholly different breed of control he was struggling for.

  He pulled away, urging her to sit up with him. He held her face as they kissed, those deep, wet strokes that roused her as she’d thought only more explicit contact could. The kind of contact she was dying for, frankly. His bare cock in her fist, or her mouth. A bossy hand at the back of her head, orders murmured in that deep voice. She shivered at the thought.

  “Get on my lap,” he muttered against her lips.

  More a wish than a command, but it excited her all the same. She straddled him, welcoming the hard heat of his arousal against her own. Could he feel how ready he’d made her? Could he smell it? Was it driving him as crazy as it was her?

  He laughed softly, the sound making her light-headed. He eased her back an inch or so and slipped his hand between their middles. “I’m too close again,” he said with a smile. And in place of his cock, he offered the edge of his hand for her pleasure. His thumb traced the length of her lips as she moved, and with just the thin cotton of her panties between them, there’d be no mistaking how wet she’d become, how hard and swollen her clit had grown. He kissed her deeply, a new sort of kiss. It was rough and hungry, and when his tongue was done tasting her, he caught her lower lip in his teeth. He made a wondrous noise, caught somewhere between a growl and a chuckle.

  He let her go, gaze moving all over her face. “Jesus, Steph. You—”

  BRRRRZZZZZ.

  She yelped at the doorbell.

  Crap—the calzones. She fumbled from Patrick’s lap, staggered to the intercom and buzzed the delivery guy in. Patrick was in no fit state to open the door.

  “Hide your shame,” she told him, tossing a throw pillow at his lap then scrambling into her lounge pants and camisole. She fanned her chest with her hand, willing the telltale red splotches to go away.

  A knock, and she opened the door a crack
. “Hi,” she said, smiling at the middle-aged delivery guy. He looked annoyed, and rightly so—she should have rushed down and met him in the foyer, instead of making him navigate the elevator and corridors.

  “Two calzones?” He cast a skeptical glance at her unseasonable ensemble.

  “Yup!” She said it far too brightly, and signed the receipt against the wall as he slid the boxes from their insulated sleeve. She wondered if he could see shirtless Patrick behind her, pillow clutched condemningly to his lap.

  “Sorry to make you come all the way up. I forgot I even placed the order.”

  “So I gathered.”

  She tipped him outrageously and he immediately cheered.

  “Enjoy your evening,” he said with a smirk, swapping the boxes for the slip and pen.

  “Thank you. Try to stay warm.”

  “Try to stay dressed,” he countered loudly, already halfway down the hall.

  She closed the door and took a moment to shut her eyes and wallow in humiliation. When she opened them again, she found Patrick sprawled across the couch in silent hysterics, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks.

  “Yes, very funny.”

  He wheezed and turned over, burying his face in the upholstery and thumping the armrest with his fist.

  She tossed the boxes on the counter and jumped on him, straddling his butt and giving his back a good smack. He wrestled himself around beneath her, face contorted with the agony of uncontrollable amusement. She studied him until his desperate, silent laughter petered into gasps, then little stilted huffs. He wiped the tears from his eyes with a final sigh.

  She planted her palms on his chest and leaned forward to glare at him. Damn, it was nice to be this way with a man again—ridiculous and playful, and physical in a way she knew he could handle. Roughhousing like kids. Except way better, because there was sex to be had.

  Beneath her, Patrick was shifting back into primitive mode. She felt his cock stiffening against her inner thigh, and the amusement on his face had morphed into a different kind of helplessness.

  She peeled her camisole away and sent it fluttering to the floor.

  “On top of me,” she ordered.

  “I’m still close.”

  “Use your hand.”

  She lay back when he made room, welcoming him above her, between her legs.

  “I like how bossy you are,” Patrick said with a smile. He braced himself on one arm and slipped his other hand between her thighs.

  The contact made her gasp—the tease of his strong fingers through her panties.

  “Move like you’re...you know.”

  Another smile, then his face became set. He stroked her with his fingertips, and moved his hips as he might if they were having actual sex, the fronts of his hard thighs brushing the insides of hers. Steph’s imagination sketched in the details, imagining it was his pumping penetration giving her this pleasure. Before long he deepened the illusion, slipping his hand inside her underwear. She bucked at the feeling, at the shock of how primed he’d made her. His fingers slipped against her, but it was the look on his face that excited her most. Awe. And hunger.

  “Is this good?” he asked.

  Steph nodded. She was past the point of giving orders, eager to be at the mercy of this man, feeling like he was in charge of her pleasure. Like he was in charge, period.

  “You can be kind of dirty,” she told him.

  “Like how?”

  She smirked at him. “You show me.”

  He looked stymied for a breath, then determination firmed his features. Against her folds, she felt his fingers stiffen, uniting as a single force to trace her lips. She shivered. He slipped two inside her, added a third. He worked them in slowly, and as his touch got bolder, the pad of his palm brushed her clit each time he slid his fingers deep.

  Your hips, she wanted to beg. Move your hips again. She tensed her thighs around them, and he felt the spurring. He began to thrust softly, as much as he could without interfering with the efforts of his talented hand.

  It was plenty. All she needed was the flex of his belly, the penetration, and she was getting close. With those fingers slipping in and out, with that strained look on his face, she could imagine everything—imagine an even more exciting intrusion, one that would have this man panting and greedy.

  Rougher, she beamed to him. In time she got her wish, but it looked like a subconscious change—Patrick’s expression grew darker as he pleasured her, his hips losing their rhythm and grace, his fingers’ motions getting faster and gruffer. She shut her eyes and imagined his cock, owning her like this...only deeper. Thicker. Hotter in every way.

  The pleasure tightened, a fist begging Patrick, more. He gave it. He was groaning, the sound rising with every passing moment. She wanted to touch him, hold him in her hand—know how hard he was, how hot and angry his cock must feel, being neglected this way.

  Through labored breaths he asked, “Are you thinking about me?”

  She opened her eyes, and the reality of him, of what he was doing, was just as arousing as the sex she’d been imagining. “Yes.”

  “About what? Tell me.”

  Tell me. Ooh. Her pleasure sharpened at the order.

  “About how you’d feel. Inside me. Your cock.”

  He swallowed, his eyes seeming to grow dark with mischief or excitement. “You feel amazing.” He slowed his strokes, making her feel each inch of his fingers as they slid in, out, in, out.

  The breath left her. The cocky show was as pleasurable as the physical contact. Touch my clit. But she wouldn’t tell him to. Being the one who got told what to do was so much more fun. “Talk to me.”

  “Fuck, I want you.” He shut his eyes, and it looked as though his pleasure had turned to pain. But he showed no signs of stopping. His strong arm flexed with every pump he gave her, chest muscles clenching, hips thumping her thighs.

  His blue eyes opened, staring down at her. “Tell me you want me, too.”

  “I want you. So bad.” I’ve got condoms. Just ask me.

  But he didn’t. He kept working, kept owning her with his hand. The pleasure built each time his palm brushed her clit, but it was his voice that did her in. “I’m gonna make you come.”

  She reeled at the words. Make you.

  “Tell me,” he said, face set, nearly mean.

  “You’re going to make me come.”

  A smile broke through that gruff expression. He dropped lower, onto his elbow, never easing up with his laboring hand. “I can’t wait. Lemme see it.”

  She couldn’t have denied him if she’d wanted to. The orgasm ratcheted tight, tight, tight, taking her with a ferocity that arched her back and ground her head into the cushion. It was a hot, furious force, scary and quenching and holy, a dozen mismatched things, all writhing together in an angry knot. He killed the stimulation right when she needed him to, slowing his strokes until his fingers were just a warm, welcome presence inside her. She opened her eyes, panting, and found Patrick watching, his gaze reverent.

  “Wow,” he murmured.

  She smiled. “C’mere.”

  He slipped his fingers from her, lowering onto both forearms so their chests brushed, and giving her just a taste of that exciting male weight atop her. She kissed his lips, running her hands over his soft hair.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome. That was awesome.”

  “You have no idea.” But I’ll give you a clue, she thought, grinning to herself. “Sit back.”

  He left her, sitting on his heels between her legs. Steph rolled the TV stand away and moved to the floor on her knees. She slapped his thigh and he sat as she wanted, feet on the floor, legs spread wide. She tugged at his waistband and he took that order as well, stripping his shorts away. Stroking his strong legs, she made him wait, savoring the anticipation and the scene. He had a gorgeous cock, but more than his length or size or any other physical thing, it was knowing she’d done this to him—made him this hard, gotten that
bead of excitement gleaming at his crown—that made her ache for it. Ache to please him. She slid her palms up his thighs, one hand clasping his hip, the other his shaft.

  “Oh.” His head dropped back at the contact, fingers tangling in her hair. “Please.”

  Hoping his demands might get gruffer if she teased him, she limited the contact to her hand to start.

  “Please,” he said again.

  Please what?

  “Suck me, Steph.”

  Yes, sir. She lowered her face, welcoming him between her lips.

  The world became his taste, his smell, his voice rumbling in those harsh breaths as she found her pace, and the faint but sinful weight of his hands on her head, fingers in her hair.

  He was too far gone for orders. The only word tumbling down from above was “Yeah,” a pained and excited mantra chanted to the rhythm of the pleasure she gave him. His thighs trembled. His fingers gripped and loosened erratically. And finally—

  “I’m close. I’m so close.”

  A promise, or a warning? If it were the latter, she didn’t care to heed it. She spoiled him with every last trick she knew, and told him with her lips and tongue, Let me taste you.

  “Oh. Steph.”

  His hands froze. His entire body locked save his hips, which clenched with each spurt of his hot surrender. With a final, tiny moan he went slack, relaxing back against the cushions, fingers releasing her hair.

  “Oh God.”

  She swallowed and sought his eyes, finding them closed. His handsome face was pink, lips looking swollen, his ears and the tip of his nose flushed red. Adorable. He blinked at her and smiled. “Wow.”

  She rose and flopped down next to him. Patrick sighed, stretching both arms along the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling, blissed out. For a minute or more they simply breathed, coming down from the lust-high, touching each other’s backs, hair, nudging one another’s knees with their own. Steph broke the silence with a satisfied sigh.

  “Want me to heat the calzones up? They’re probably cold by now.”

  Patrick turned to study her, looking thoughtful as he toyed with her hair. “Let’s go to your neighbor’s wine-and-cheese thing.”