“Oh, fuck—WILL!”
He doesn’t respond in words, but renews his oral assault on me, and when I begin to tremble, he slides the hand supporting me from underneath my butt up and around to hook two thick fingers inside me, curling perfectly and pulling out and slicking in as if he knows exactly how I want to be touched, as if he could hear my mental plea for more. Or maybe that plea for more isn’t so mental—
I hear myself moaning, and the moans are nearly unintelligible as words: “Yes, yes, yes—right there, oh fuck oh god, please put something inside me—”
I come apart with a deafening scream, spine arching to lift almost my entire body off the bed with a nearly painful and concussive orgasm, heat blasting through me and making me quaver head to toe, shaking crazily all over, and then my hips are driving against his mouth, taking his lips and tongue and fingers and aching for so much more.
I rip at his hair, yanking him upward, and he grunts at the tug of my fingers.
“Jesus, woman, calm down,” he mutters.
“Not until you fuck me properly,” I snap.
He levers over me on one hand, knees between my thighs, staring down at me. “Is that how it is?”
I reach a hand between our bodies and clutch his latex-encased shaft, marveling at the size of it, and wishing I’d taken a moment to feel him bare before he wrapped himself up.
Later, I promise myself. Before this is over, whenever that may be.
I cup his taut heavy sac and explore the tender softness of it and the ripples of the veins and folds of the skin, and then let my grip slide up the shaft again, watching his reaction. His jaw clenches again, and his breathing stops.
“That’s how it is,” I say.
I grasp him in both fists, and pull him to me. He follows my tugging, shifting his weight forward until he’s on both hands and knees and the tip of his shaft is nudging my opening. He pauses, and I’m not breathing, our eyes are locked and a million thoughts speed through my mind in a tangled blur—this is a mistake, he’s going to break my heart, this is going to be the best sex I’ve ever had, if this is as amazing as I think it’s going to be I’ll end up wanting him more than I know how to handle and holy shit he’s huge can I even fit that monster cock of his inside me?
He still hesitates. “Can you take it all?”
He’s referring to his totally and completely ridiculous size—he knows exactly how big he is, and he’s making sure I can handle it all.
I grin up at him, another of those wicked, predatory smirks, and claw both hands into the taut, hard meat of his ass, pulling him against me and lifting my hips to writhe against him, heels hooked around the backs of his thighs. “Let’s find out.”
He enters me in a rush, in a stinging, burning, aching, delirious slide of iron through silk. My sex is soaked with desire and I’m clenched and trembling and when he pushes in I can’t help but whimper, a breathless, quavery gasp.
“Good?” he mutters.
I put my lips to his shoulder, nodding. “If you stop now, I’ll bite a chunk out of your big stupid shoulder.”
He laughs, and drives all the way in until our hips meet with a crash of bone and flesh. “You’re a real wildcat, aren’t you?”
I rake my claws into his ass and laugh with him. “You’re about to find out.”
He bows his spine up, pushes harder to get deeper while drawing his lips in a stuttering slide down my sternum and between my breasts, which drape to either side with the pull of gravity. He props his weight on one hand and uses the other to cup my breast and bring it back up and to his mouth, and his lips suction around the stiffened nipple, sending a spasm of giddiness soaring through me.
I can’t hold still any longer, and neither can he. He moves, and I move with him, our actions coming in perfect sync—he pulls back and I lower my hips, and then he slowly pushes in and I writhe up to meet him. Again, and this time the next drive comes faster, and I gasp out loud, the sound of my voice faint and breathless, but his answering groan is just as incoherent, just as breathless.
He grips my breast harder, clutching it for purchase, for leverage as he crushes into me, our cores meeting with a loud slap punctuated by a whimper from me and groan from Will. I paw at him, fingernail trailing down his spine and digging into his thick shoulders and curling around his buttocks, pulling at him in a wordless plea to go harder, to get deeper.
“Need more,” I murmur, arching forward, using my abdominal muscles to strain upward.
He moves backward away from me, shifting to sit on his shins, and his hands slide under my ass and he lifts me and pulls me closer—when my butt is resting on his knees and his shaft is bent away from at what has to be an uncomfortable angle, Will wraps his hands around my ankles and pushes my legs up so my feet face the ceiling. He lifts up onto his knees, spreads me apart and leans against the backs of my legs; god, what an ignominious, awkward, embarrassing angle, so vulnerable, so at his mercy. My spine is curled and pressed down into the mattress, my weight on my neck and head, hands scrabbling uselessly at the blankets to either side of my hips. I am utterly without any kind of control in this position. I cannot move on my own, can’t thrust, can’t show him if I want it faster or slower, harder or more gently.
“Will—”
He’s buried deep, hips against my ass, fully impaled. His eyes are fierce and virulently blue and wild and mad, churning and sparking, and his jaw is clenched and pulsating—a world of words boils unspoken behind his eyes. He doesn’t move, and our eyes are locked, a burning connection searing between us. I can’t find words either, and I’m never at a loss for something to say, but somehow, here, now, with Will, after the day I’ve had, I’m in a bizarre place and emotionally vulnerable and despite his cranky, contrary attitude and unwillingness to listen to me or speak much, he has been attentive and gentle and seems to know without having to be told or asked or shown what I want, what I need.
But I do NOT like this position. My favorite positions are ones where I have control. Cowgirl, or better yet, reverse cowgirl. Even in vanilla old missionary, I have some input and control over pace. In doggy style, too.
Like this? None.
“Will, this isn’t—”
“You want it?” he cuts in.
I grit my teeth. Nod. “Yes.”
“You want more?”
I nod again. “Yes, I want more.”
“Then relax for a fuckin’ second and let me give you more.”
“I just—” I let out a breath, and with it comes a truth I would never in a million years have ever told a man, under any circumstances, but for some reason, this day and this man have loosened the truth out of me in truly frightening and worrisome ways. “I’m not used to not being in control. I don’t like it.”
“No shit, Brooklyn. You’re wound up tighter than a fuckin’ drum.” He flutters his hips, giving me a soft, slow, shallow thrust that’s barely a thrust at all, barely even a movement, just a tiny flex of his hips, and that minuscule slip of him ever so slightly deeper elicits a gasp from me. “Deep down, you want someone to take control. Even just for five minutes.”
“Sounds like the inference of someone suffering from an excess of toxic masculinity to me,” I say, but something small and hard deep inside my chest wriggles uncomfortably, a little niggling worm of doubt.
He shifts his hips again, another little flex, and I feel him move inside me—it’s a tease, because goddammit I want it, I want him, I want more, I need to come with him inside me because no orgasm is ever quite as good as one delivered by a good hard fucking.
He doesn’t insist on restating his position, doesn’t argue with me about my toxic masculinity comment. Instead, he teases me. Shows me that I’m wrong—he knows I’m assuming I won’t like it in this position because I have no control, and he believes otherwise. He thinks some part of me wants to let him take control. He’s wrong, but he can think what he wants—after he’s given me another orgasm.
He interrupts my train of thought
with another shallow thrust, but this time, he lets my legs down to a less extreme and upright angle, and dammit, dammit, dammit…it doesn’t feel as good.
I growl in frustration, and in a display of mind-reading, he laughs and levers my legs back up, and this time pushes them vertical, and further yet, so the greater majority of my entire body is suspended off the bed and held there by his hips—and by the thick hard throbbing shaft crushed deep inside me.
He doesn’t move immediately—again. I growl impatiently, and he just rumbles a laugh. “Relax.”
“Will—”
“You want to just fuck and get it over with? Or you want to really enjoy it?” He waits for my answer, buried deep, throbbing inside my tight-clenched channel.
I grit my teeth again. “Both.”
Another laugh. “Can’t have it both ways.”
He slides a palm down my thigh, caresses my ass, and then his touch feathers over my hip and drifts over my belly—he has to lean hard against my thighs, pushing himself deeper, but he reaches my breasts and toys with them, flicking my nipples and cupping their heavy weight one and then the other before pinching my shoulder—which is odd, and decidedly not an erogenous zone.
“You are tensed all over,” Will says. “One big ball of stress and tension.”
“Maybe you missed it, but today was pretty fucking traumatic for me.”
“I don’t miss much,” Will answers. “You just need to relax and let go for a few minutes.”
“I don’t know how,” I mutter, the admission burning a hole in my chest.
He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Try that.” He does it again. “A deep breath, nice and slow.”
I can’t help a laugh. “You have your dick in me, and you’re gonna stop and teach me deep breathing techniques?” I laugh again. “I do yoga, Will. I’m familiar with how to breathe.”
“So use it. Relax.” He pulls backward, drawing his shaft nearly all the way out of me, hands on my ankles, pushing my legs backward, pushing against them for leverage. “Just feel.”
I growl, frustrated, impatient, uncomfortable with this whole situation—I didn’t give him a fake answer before; I really do want both to just fuck and get it over with, but also to really enjoy this. God, I’m so mixed up. I want this to be over—it’s intense and scary and I’m emotionally fraught and already vulnerable and already owe this man my life several times and he’s already so much, so overwhelmingly male and primal and alpha and commanding and sexy and I can’t afford to like him, because he doesn’t like me and we have to do business and we shouldn’t even be having sex because it’s just going to confuse the whole issue, and GODDDAMMIT he feels
SO
FUCKING
GOOD
Inside me.
Too good.
“Just feel, Brooklyn.”
What is he, a mindfulness instructor?
Maybe he should be.
He thrusts in, exquisitely slowly, so I feel every last millimeter of him as he stretches my opening to slide through, veins stuttering against my taut-stretched nether lips, until he’s buried all the way inside me and our bodies meet with a clap of flesh. His eyes are locked on mine and his hand caresses down my thighs in a gesture of intimacy that leaves my heart hammering so hard I’m worried it will crack out of my ribcage. His hands, those hands, god, his hands are so big, so work-roughened, yet so gentle as they graze downward to my sex, his calluses scratching and scraping deliciously over the tender sensitive silk of my inner thighs. He leans against my legs and pulls back, his chest on my calves, pushing until I’m bent in half and further yet, until my knees flatten my breasts and my feet hang on to his shoulders.
A guy I once slept with wanted to watch porn first, so I indulged him, and this was a position he seemed to find particularly arousing, since it’s what led him to making the move on me. I disabused him of the notion that we would be engaging in that position—because I remember thinking how vulnerable it looked, how awkward and male-focused. Typical porn, right? Of course she seemed to find it thoroughly enjoyable, but that’s her job, to sell the video. It hadn’t looked comfortable then, and honestly it wasn’t comfortable.
I hate the weakness of it, the submissiveness, the vulnerability.
I’ve been at his mercy so much today, and this is yet another position I find myself in where he’s in control.
My lungs seize and my heart hammers and every muscle in my body is indeed tensed, and I’m about to tell him to just get off me if this is how he wants it.
And then he slams into me.
Once, without warning—hard.
I scream.
Scream.
I have never, ever, been so deeply penetrated. Never felt so full. It’s him, his size, his power, how thick he is inside me, but it’s this position, and I can’t help but feel all of him, and the rough way he begins to thrust, then, is beyond perfect because it sears away all my thoughts and all I can do is feel.
All I can do is feel.
Will.
I’m not crying. I’m not. Seriously.
It just feels so good—and I find myself relaxing. I let go, let the tension bleed out of me with every pumping, driving thrust, until there’s nothing left but the connection of our bodies. Will, inside me. Slicking out, pushing in.
“You like it, now, huh?” he asks.
I have no lies left inside me, no demurral, no manipulation. “Yes, dammit, I do.”
He has my knees pressed together, so my legs are sealed against each other from ankles to core. He straightens, pulling upright so his shaft bends away, and his hands carve down the inside of my thighs and he pushes them apart, nudging them open. I let him guide me, because I can’t not, in this moment—I may never trust anyone as much as I trust Will in this moment, and I swear to god I’ll never let myself sleep with him again because this could be the end of me, if I let this go any further—he could be the end of me—
He spreads my legs apart, his hands gripping the backs of my knees, and he pushes until my knees are beside my breasts, and I’m curled back over onto myself, utterly spread apart for him, and for a moment I’m about to argue.
He sees my mouth open, and he grins, cutting me off. “Don’t. Just take it.” He pulls out slowly, abs flexing. “Trust me, relax, and just take me like this.”
I groan in frustration, because he’s so damn commanding, and some part of me just responds in a way I’ve never let a man cause me to respond. But with Will, I don’t seem to have a choice. I just respond. It’s base instinct, automatic. Something deep inside me is just…bound to Will. Wrapped around him, mixed up with him, even though we just met and I’m not sure he even likes me despite being obviously attracted to me physically.
I close my eyes and drop my head to the mattress, and breathe myself to relaxation.
Once he sees me loosening the tension, he starts moving.
And HOLY HELL.
Oh god, oh no, oh dear. Oh shit.
Split apart.
Riven in two.
Filled to completion, and beyond.
I can’t even scream—my jaw drops open as he fills me and withdraws in a slow grind, my lungs are empty and I’m trying to scream but I can’t, I can’t, it’s just too much like this, he’s too much.
Too deep.
“Touch yourself, Brooklyn.”
My eyes flick open and meet his. “What?”
He releases one of my legs, and I hold it there because this feels too freaking amazing to ever stop, ever change. I curl back on myself, of my own volition, holding the position and welcoming him, balancing on my upper spine as he slides in and slicks out, entering me until his sex meets mine in a wet squelch followed by a stuttering withdrawal.
He touches two fingertips to my clitoris, and my gasp is raw and ragged, I’m so sensitive that light, simple touch makes me spasm involuntarily. He takes my hand in his and guides my fingers to my sex. “Touch yourself.”
I obey without question, a first in my
life in just about any situation with anyone, men especially.
My middle finger presses against the tight, tender little nub of nerves, and I whimper helplessly—immediately, I feel the orgasm rising inside me, a climax so tumultuous verging on the horizon that I’m a little scared of it. I’m scared of a lot of things where Will Auden is concerned, but right now, the orgasm I feel budding inside me is the most pressing concern.
Will moves slowly, rhythmically, and my finger moves faster and faster, yet his thrusts remain the same. I’m driven to writhing, gasping, my finger flying as I seek the climax, chasing it relentlessly, wanting it as much as I’m scared of how hard it’s going to rip through me. Will grunts, a low growl, letting me keep my legs thrown up over my head and cupping and clutching and caressing my breasts as they shake with our joining. He thumbs my nipples and tweaks them, clutches the quivering globe in strong rough fingers as he drives into me.
Faster now.
“Oh god, Will—” I whisper this, hating myself for sounding so needy, so desperate, but that’s what I feel and he’s making me feel it. “Will!”
He grunts, and then draws out a long low groan, head hanging, jaw clenched. “Brooklyn—Jesus.”
I watch him, watch the way his chest expands heavily, the way his abs draw in and tense, the way his brow furrows—the fierce grip of his hands around my breasts, the way his thrusts become hard and fast, become ragged and clumsy…he’s close.
He’s feeling this as powerfully as me.
Then, his fierce blue eyes rake up my heaving body, and fix on mine. And yes, he feels this.
He shifts his grip to my legs, holding on to the backs of my thighs with bruising strength, and slams into me. “What…the hell…are you doing to me, Brooklyn?” He’s shaking all over, and his thrusts are slow and shaky—he’s holding back with every last ounce of strength he has, trying to hold out.
Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love) Page 14
