Cowboy Up(8)
“Show me you wanna be bad,” he says, his voice straining as his erection grows even harder between our hold.
I rip my hand away from his flesh and my mouth finds his as I search for the condom again. This time he’s the one that finds it, but he pulls my hand from his neck and places the packet in my palm as I continue to roll my tongue against his. As I tear it open, my mouth leaves his and starts kissing every inch of his body while I fumble my way through putting a condom on. Then, thank the heavens above, I finish at the same time my mouth finds his nipple. I bite it, not even sure what’s come over me, but I get a rush of power from the guttural noises spilling from him.
I scoot my knees until I feel him again between my legs, lifting up with my hands on his shoulders. “Put your cock inside of me,” I pant against his mouth, shocked at the brazen words that left my own without thought.
“I thought you’d never ask, sugar,” he grunts, one hand leaving the breasts he’d been playing with to line himself up with my entrance. The second I feel his blunt tip, I let my body fall, taking every rock-hard inch of him at once.
The pleasure is blinding.
And I scream.
And scream.
And scream.
Every single time I go to lift myself off of him, I feel a strangled sound leave my mouth.
“Take it easy, darlin’. Fuckin’ hell. Didn’t think you would try to split yourself in two,” he mumbles, kissing me sweetly while helping me rock my hips to get used to the size of him. It doesn’t take long for those sweet kisses to turn desperate and my body to need more.
If he weren’t such a large man, or maybe if I weren’t such a small woman, I would have been able to ride him like he had wanted, but as it was, I couldn’t even get myself halfway off his hardness before he realized I needed help. His hands clamp my hips and lift me all the way off before thrusting me down. We continue, both of us moving in a way that would make you think we’d been lovers for years. The sounds of my wetness fuel my desire as we swallow each other’s moans.
“I’m going to . . .” I pant.
“Say it,” he grunts when I stop speaking. “Tell me what you’re gonna give me.”
“I’m going to . . . God, Davis, I’m going to come!” I yell as I start to do just that.
He drops me, hard and heavy against him, and I start rocking my hips while my pleasure takes me to the brink of insanity. The whole time, he speaks soft words that I’m unable to understand through the force of my orgasm.
Then he proves he’s a man of his word, because I come again on my hands and knees while he pulls my head back with a strong grip on my ponytail, his balls slapping against my hyper-sensitive flesh. Then and only then does he pull free of me, flip me onto my back, and climb up my body with his knees digging into the mattress next to my sides. I feel the tip of him touch my chest a few times as his furiously pumps himself; then the hot splash of his come hits my chest as he bellows out into the shadows around us. I hadn’t even registered him removing the condom, so lost was I in delicious pleasure.
His body slackens when the last drop leaves him, giving me just enough of his weight but clearly not all of it since I can still breathe. I wiggle, the wetness on my breasts starting to roll toward my neck, and lift one hand up to swipe at it. I’m not sure what makes me lick my fingers clean, but when the salty taste of him bursts against my tongue, I moan loudly.
“Fuck.” He hisses breathlessly. “Just came harder than I ever fuckin’ have and I’m ready to take more from you. You too sore for my cock again?”
“Hmm?” I moan, still sucking the taste of him off my fingers.
“Doesn’t matter, gonna fuck you again anyway.”
And boy does he. By the time we finally fall asleep, he’s taken me once in the shower and again in the bed before pulling me into his arms seconds before I pass out. The last thought that goes through my mind before drifting off is if this was how living wild and free feels, I am never going to stop.
Never.
3
CLAYTON
“Dirt on My Boots” by Jon Pardi
The overwhelming heat rushing through my body is enough to make me hate being a rancher during these hot-as-fuck summer months. The oppressing temperature assaults me the second I open my front door, the heat so stifling that it steals your breath straight from your damn lungs. The harder I work, the worse it gets, until I pray to whoever will listen for anything to filter some of these damn rays. Nothing changes the fact that shit needs to get done and I’m the one who needs to do it.
Trails of sweat drip down my back, slow tracks of fiery wetness that feel like they burn my skin on the way to my belted jeans. I drop the pitchfork I’ve been using to add straw to the horses’ stalls and rip my shirt off, wiping my brow with it before placing my hat back on my soaked head as I toss the garment behind me and continue with my task.