Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  My breathing is so fast, it’s like a panic attack. I’m locking everything down inside me, because if I don’t, I feel like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces. And while it would be in an absolutely awesome way, such intensity is scary as hell. Every single thrust is a trigger and I don’t know which one will cause a big enough explosion. He’s playing Russian roulette with my body.

  In a way, I feel as boneless as a ragged doll. My limbs limp and unable to claw back at the endless penetration, unable to fuck him back. And then something snaps inside me. The Russian roulette has backfired and I begin to clamp down on him, start to meet his thrusts until his hips hammer into me. His hand moves to cup the back of my head so it doesn’t smash against the wall and he drags me closer to him, making the angle of penetration hit something deep inside that has me keening.

  My back arches as my clit nudges against the base of his penis and within a few more thrusts, that’s it.

  Boom.

  Chapter Seven

  If I say that was one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had, it actually doesn’t mean all that much. I’ve had few so I can still rate them as explosive, heart-racing excitement, and then leg-crossing good. That last one has augmented the list and now, above explosive is supernova serious.

  But no matter how serious it was, no matter how it made my eyes cross, the aftermath wasn’t pretty.

  And I mean that in two ways.

  One, we didn’t use a condom.

  Two, well, too much information and all that, let me just say this, I’ve officially had a cream pie. Something which is proof that I’ve watched too much porn with Eddie and Marina. That I’m even aware of such a term has me fidgeting with discomfort, but my sexual education has been complete and Marina especially was a prudent sex professor.

  A cream pie. I’ll never think of éclairs or profiteroles in the same way, ever again. Christ, another thing to cross off the bucket list. Not that that was actually on it, because hell’s bells, the last thing I need is to get pregnant.

  I’ll be honest and say it felt good. Hot and sticky and natural but still… shit. Dan didn’t want kids, and when I realized the mistake I’d made by marrying such a jerk off, I didn’t want kids with him either. He always used a condom so I’ve never experienced this before.

  The instant I felt the splash of Zane’s seed inside me, I came down from my high and even though he’s slumped against me, his breathing still too fast and the connection of flesh to flesh is amazing, it doesn’t make me feel better.

  In fact, it makes me feel worse. It reminds me of what I don’t have and never will and it reminds me of what I need to do.

  I need to go to a pharmacy.

  Now.

  Swallowing, I try not to let my panic overcome me and gently stroke his back. Pressing my lips to his ear, I whisper, “Zane, I need to go.”

  His head jolts back, wavering a little as though his neck doesn’t have the strength to support his skull. His dazed frown is rather sweet, and he blinks at me. “Go?”

  “Yeah. I have to go to the pharmacy, babe.”

  “The pharmacy?” He blinks again and then awareness bleeds into his gaze, and he slams his eyes shut. “Shit.”

  I hum under my breath in agreement. Maybe I should be annoyed, but I can’t be. This is my fault as much as his and I guess I should visit a doctor and go on the pill so that this doesn’t happen again. As long as I deal with this situation now, there’ll be no repercussions and I can’t afford for there to be any consequences.

  And I don’t just mean in the monetary sense.

  If I ever have a child, then I’ll need more than the promise of being a kept woman.

  “Let me up, honey,” I murmur, and squeeze his arm in what I hope is a reassuring way.

  “I’m sorry, Mona,” he replies, as he moves away and watches me as I return to the shower and turn it on.

  “Don’t be. Mistakes happen and we can sort this out.”

  “Still.”

  I shrug and quickly get washed. “Like I said, we can sort this out. I don’t want to be pregnant as much as you don’t want me to be either. I just need to get the emergency contraceptive and it will take care of it.”

  He nods and I zone him out, concentrating on rectifying the problem and cleaning up—who knew there was so much cum in one ejaculation? Christ, I’m having a biology lesson at the same time as a panic attack.

  Within the hour, I’ve popped over to a pharmacy, been humiliated by the attendant who looked at me with scorn, I could almost hear her thoughts. She should know better at her age.

  Hell, talk about making me feel old before my time.

  And I’ve taken the damned pill.

  A part of me needed Zane to watch me take it, for him to know that I wouldn’t trap him by getting pregnant and I could sense his relief as I swallowed it and took care of the morning’s mistake.

  While it saddened me to think of such a glorious experience as a mistake, it’s too late for regrets. In my mind, it’s under the title of don’t go there again.

  The next day, with Zane signing the check and waiting outside in the waiting area, we visited the gynecologist and I was hooked up with the pill. And they say money doesn’t talk. Ha!

  Can I say that that morning’s incident didn’t change things?

  No. I can’t. It has, but not necessarily in either a bad or a good way. But things are definitely different.

  I think it brought it all home to Zane, what he’s doing with me and the danger he’s involving himself in. Hell, this isn’t Iraq, but it warrants its own precautions.

  The upside is that every night, I go to bed by myself and wake up in the early hours of the morning to find him there. At eight AM, he’s still there and let me just say that’s becoming my favorite time of the day.

  And not just for the obvious reasons.

  I didn’t realize it until now, but I’ve led a pretty lonely life for the last four years. I have Edwina and Marina, and yeah, I’m pissed at them at the minute but we’ll make up soon. They’ve always been there in the past and they’ll still be there in the future. This is just a blip in a long friendship, I know that. Regardless, I also know they lead separate lives to me and we connect, often, but still, they have their own things to do and I have mine.

  Being with Zane has made me realize how wonderful it is to be with someone, to see something comical on the TV and to have another person share in that humor or to listen to a song and have someone else tap their foot to the beat.

  And the best part is not waking up alone. Sometimes, he’s sprawled across the entire bed. Other times, he’s curled up behind me.

  Whatever, I like it.

  Too much.

  When he goes home, returns to the man he pledged his life to, I’ll be alone.

  I try not to dwell on that, and take advantage of the moments we have together.

  Like now.

  I’m curled up behind him for once and rather than wake him up with a morning kiss, I’ve reached around and grabbed his already impressive morning wood. Over the last week, I’ve grown rather adept at hand jobs and blowjobs and while I can’t be considered an expert, Zane’s reactions are more than pleasing.

  And while it’s all about him and his pleasure, at the same time, I receive an enormous amount of satisfaction out of playing with him.

  He represents freedom. The freedom to taste and to touch, and that’s something I’ve never known before.

  Beneath my palm, his cock is hot, so hot my skin tingles in reaction. I enjoy waking him up this way, because I know I’ll get my reward—as he terms it—very, very soon.

  I’ve started to look upon orgasms as treats. Grinning at the thought, I continue to touch him however I want until I know he’s awake. His body stiffens, and then relaxes. From the few nightmares he’s had, I’d hazard a guess that he finds it difficult to sleep with someone else and whenever he does awaken, I get the feeling I should be grateful he isn’t choking me for daring to be within an
inch of his personal space.

  You can take the man away from the battlefield but not the war from the man.

  “Morning, shug,” he almost grunts, his voice deep and as dark as molten chocolate this early in the morning. He’s gone from calling me sweetheart to sweets and sugar to shugs within a week. Christ knows what he’ll be calling me in a few months’ time. “Fuck, that feels good,” he bites out around a low, long groan.

  Despite myself, pleasure jolts through me at his words and it’s merely compounded when he rolls his hips in reaction and grunts a little as he pumps his hips even more to thrust into my hand. The tension in his body transmits the idea that he’s on the brink of coming and when I tighten my hand in expectance, he surprises me.

  Rather than cum, he scares the hell out of me by simultaneously rolling over, urging me on to my belly and pinning me to the bed. Before I have a chance to do little more than shriek, my wrists are grabbed in one of his huge mitts and shackled over my head.

  “That’s not fair, no guerilla tactics. We agreed.” I yell, the sound muffled around a mouthful of sheet.

  “All’s fair in love and war, sweets,” he murmurs with a chuckle and bends down to nibble at my ear. Jolting at the tracing of his tongue down the length of the lobe, I’m entirely unprepared for his hand slipping between my legs and a finger thrusting into my pussy.

  “You could warn a girl,” I growl, my hips arching as the welcoming walls of my sex clamp down on the investigating finger.

  In this position though, it’s hard to do little more than accept his actions and my hips can rock about an inch upwards before slamming into his abs. My belly is squished into the mattress thanks to two hundred pounds of man holding me down, and the only reason I don’t feel entirely squashed is thanks to the bed they use in the space shuttles. Something I’d only seen on infomercials in the past, and slobbered over.

  How the hell he’s managed to work a finger into me is anyone’s guess, because my legs are in no way akimbo. But then, the man’s sneaky as hell. I can see why he shot through the ranks of the Marines.

  I squirm as he begins to thrust, the thick digit no way near as large as his dick, but still an intrusive presence. One that merely demonstrates how turned on I am by both giving Zane a hand job and being pinned down to the bed.

  Christ, talk about cavewoman desires.

  His thumb slides down to my clit and nudges against that, the sudden gush of juices should embarrass me but that slight touch has my engines revving like nobody’s business.

  I try to spread my legs, invite him closer, urge another part of Zane’s body inside of me, but again, I can’t move.

  His finger taunts and teases my pussy, stroking, tickling, thrusting. My blood must have turned to steam, because I’m hotter than hell with the sensations ricocheting through me, sparks so powerful that it’s a wonder I don’t self-combust on the bed.

  It should be embarrassing, but I can feel the sweat dripping off me as arousal combines with the reality of my position. My lungs are feeling the strain of fighting for air, when he keeps taking it away by shocking me with his touch as well as his weight pressing into my back. My hair is clinging to my face and neck, and at that moment, I ponder chopping it off. Waist-length hair isn’t practical, when you have an active sex life.

  His lips suddenly appear at my temple and his tongue darts out to sup the beads of sweat that have gathered there. With the gentleness of that touch, I sigh and his mouth works its way down to my ear.

  “If you keep your hands right where they are, you’ll get a reward. If you don’t, then all that juice will go to waste.”

  I want to pout, denial after a four-year long stint at celibacy does not fill me with glee, but rather than argue as I’ll get back at him later, I nod, and wriggle my fingers once his grip has disappeared. Slowly, the pressure relents along my spine and I have some freedom of movement, but I make sure to remain still lest I lose my reward.

  I feel my legs dragged toward the edge of the bed and I remain silent as he positions me so that my knees touch the ground. My cheeks flush as he separates my legs and fiddles with the angle until the outer lips of my sex are sandwiched between my inner thighs.

  It doesn’t take much of an imagination to gather what he’s going to do next.

  Against my butt, I can feel his lower abdomen and at my shoulders, his pecs as he reaches upwards to once again have control of my wrists.

  And then, I feel the slippery slide of his cock against the lips of my pussy. Up and down, up and down, nudging them apart, ramming against my clit and then, the almost blunt force as his dick begins to enter my body.

  Tissues that have had some practice this week begin to transmit to me their panic at the steady and incredibly deep angle of penetration.

  If my calculations don’t deceive me, then he’s not a third of the way in and the walls of my sex are already fluttering about like millions of butterfly wings in a state of hysteria.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to cry out, to ask him to stop, but another part of me doesn’t want to. He’s big and he has been touching me deep inside on a regular basis regardless of new positions. But this? Even with the shallow thrust, I feel incredibly full.

  He’s taking his time, not just ramming into me, but slowly and surely working his way inside. I don’t know which is worse. Jackhammering inside me would get it out of the way. Rip off a bandage and the pain hurts for a few seconds, and then disappears.

  This is prolonged. Steady. And all the more nerve-wracking because of it.

  With each inch of my pussy he claims, he steals another gasp of breath from my lungs and the deeper he gets, the easier it is to grab hold of the sheet with my teeth and bite down. It’s either that or… I don’t actually know what. I don’t want to scream, nor do I want him to stop. I feel like I want to grunt and curse and swear at him, fight him and buck away, entice him into slamming into me.

  But I don’t.

  I bite down and wait for him, allow him to take control.

  When every inch is inside me, he gives me a second. Maybe I’m being generous with the time estimate. Perhaps a nanosecond for me to get accustomed to the depth of his penetration is the reality. And then, bam. He starts. The hammering thrusts begin and only my location with my knees pressed tightly against the bed, stops me from rocking and jerking back and forth.

  Later, I realize that his grip on my wrists kept me pinned to the bed more than my position, but as he fucks me, honest to God, fucks me silly, I feel like I’m in the middle of a tornado.

  I’m not unaccustomed to Mother Nature’s fury, but this, this is both better and worse.

  I have no say in this.

  Oh, I don’t mean he’s forcing me. It’s simply that I can’t urge him on, or plead with him to slow down. He’s totally in control of me and my body and I can do nothing but accept him.

  And as crazy as it seems, because this shouldn’t have been pleasurable, the psychology of it, does something to me.

  When I should have screamed at him to stop the hammer of his hips, instead whimpers work in my throat. I’m his. To do with as he wants. At this moment in time, I’m the receptacle of his body and he’ll give me pleasure.

  Later on, the tides will turn—Oh, I’ll make sure of that. Payback can be a bitch—but at this moment, I’m his.

  And with my emotions already up in the air where this man is concerned, those thoughts are incredibly powerful. He hasn’t just possessed me physically, but mentally too.

  Each thrust of his cock slams against nerve-rich flesh, burrows into unchartered territory that I’ve only ever read about in books. And the weirdest thing is that I’m aware of it all. I’m not mindless as I’ve been before.

  I’m cognizant of every jerk of his hips, every curl of his pelvis as he changes the angle of his thrust.

  In this position, I’d thought it impossible to cum. I’ve realized that my clit has to be touched or massaged or nudged by his pubis or fingers to climax. And this is a l
esson, because I was wrong.

  Before, a numbness seemed to overtake my sex. It tingled and sparked and burned hotly. And the latter, I mean in the best possible way.

  This time, the walls of my pussy are quaking with the intensity of the thrusts. The sensations find their epicenter in the depths of my body, and as his pumping hips take on a wildness that tells me he’s as crazed as I am, I come.

  This is no pleasant burst of pleasure. There are no fireworks behind my eyes. This is complete detonation.

  I scream. Honest to God, scream and I don’t know for how long. It could have been five seconds or a full minute. I don’t know which.

  And the aftermath of my supernova-serious climax ain’t pretty.

  My hands pull free of his clasp and begin to claw their way through the sheets and even though I’m unaware of it, my senses register the tearing of the cloth as I rip through it with my twisting fingers.

  My body bucks against his and the urgent growl bursting free from his throat tells me that he’s coming too. His hands make another grab for mine and I’m about to jerk them away, when he bridges his fingers with my own and rides out his release.

  Even when he stops, my body is tingling and deep within my belly too. Pressed close to him, his front to my back, I feel infinitely connected to him, it’s unfortunate that the first words to pop out of my mouth aren’t deep and meaningful and represent the way he makes me feel.

  The words are garbled against the sheet, but he hears and immediately begins to chuckle in a lazy kind of way that tells me how relaxed he is. Something which instantly makes me happy.

  “I can’t feel my toes.”

  “That’s good, shugs. Means I’ve done it right.”

  He presses a kiss to my shoulder but makes no move to, well, move.

  Hell, he nuzzles his face into my nape and seems content to settle down for the morning, but I retort, “No. I really can’t feel my toes.”

  “Is that a hint?” he mock-complains, but immediately sits up and my lungs appreciate the move as does my spine.