I add a third finger, and she can’t bear it any longer. Her pussy is pulsing around my hand, and I smile at the sight of her round ass in my face. Her thighs are slick with release, her girlish moans flying around the boat—I swear I’ve died and gone to mail order bride heaven.
My cock twitches, and damn, I want to be inside her. Rolling her off me, I mount her from above, ready to fill her with my rod.
“Fuck me, Boone,” she begs, her arms wrapping around my neck, her legs around my waist. As if she instinctively knows that she needs to be as close to me as possible. Damn right, she does. “Make me come,” she moans. “I wanna come with you.”
I press myself in her, watching her slight wince as my hard cock fills her tender pussy. It’s clear she knows how to fuck, but it’s also pretty damn obvious she’s never been properly filled until she met me.
“Oh,” she screams, digging her fingers into my back. “Oh, my fucking God, yes, yes.”
I smile, thrusting into her warmth. Her pussy is shocked into submission, and I rock into her over and over again. She loves it, and so do I, this complete acceptance of whatever we’ve held back from one another. We fuck, and we forget our differences. We fuck and forge into forever.
Her gorgeous tits bounce as I claim her as mine. She closes her eyes, writhing beneath me as my throbbing cock fills her with my release. She cries out as she comes, panting as the orgasm washes over her. It’s fucking hot as hell to watch. This woman, overcome with me. This woman, realizing she is motherfucking mine.
There’s no way in hell she can get fucked like that and want to return to a life apart from me.
There’s no way in hell I’d even let her.
Chapter Twelve
Delta
Boone drives us, momentarily satiated from the fuck of our lives, back to the dock. Stress begins to grow in the pit of my stomach. The lodge is where our problems lie, where our differences will come to a head.
I know fucking won’t solve everything. Boone said the pastor was coming today. That means I need to make a decision, soon. Either I go all-in and marry this man, and later walk away like a total beotch, or I leave now.
Because the thing is—I mean, the main thing is—that yes, Boone likes to fuck me. And I like to fuck him. Like, a lot. And yes, our bodies mesh in this basically ultrasonic, cosmic way.
But watching him steer this boat with a completely content look on his rugged face, I feel like he isn’t considering the thousand ways we may not be compatible. And besides, I don’t even know if I want to be compatible. Does that make me wishy-washy and totally annoying? Quite possibly, but come on! I’m twenty-two, and a recent graduate, and I have my entire freaking life to live.
“Come on,” he says, offering his hand as we get off the boat. When we left here this morning it was all early morning dew and serenity, but now the lodge is alive with people buzzing about, preparing for opening day, which is only twenty-four hours away. “I’m guessing you’ll want to get cleaned up?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I smirk, “yoga gets me all sweaty.”
Boone raises his eyes. “That’s what has your thighs sticky and your pussy worn?”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks—which never happens—and I pull my hand away, smacking him. “Someone could hear.”
He laughs. “Oh, I’m sure they heard plenty even with us in the middle of the lake.”
“Am I really that loud?”
“Louder. Now, let’s go get changed so we can get breakfast. I worked up a fucking appetite.”
I follow him in the lodge, my eyes lowered as we pass some smirking employees. I try to breathe. These feelings fluttering in my belly—a mix of stress, desire, and curiosity—make it really difficult to know whether this could blossom into something more.
Or if I even want it to.
Later, Boone and I are sitting down to eat—me with toast, an orange, and fried potatoes, and Boone scarfing down a plate of bacon, eggs, and sausage links. I appreciate that Boone hasn’t said one underhanded comment about my food choices. And it may seem like this little thing, but a lot of meat-eater guys get very threatened by people choosing to abstain from their preferences.
His brother walks into the dining hall, and I do a double take. It’s insane how identical they are. Mason’s drinking a Bud Light. At ten in the morning. And he has a female staffer fawning over him as he swaggers toward us.
“Hey, asshat,” he calls, jutting his chin at Boone. Mason kisses the girl’s cheek, sending her away, then grabs a chair next to me. He smiles broadly, eyes raised. “So, darling, you holding up okay? Because, you know, Boone here doesn’t date many women, and maybe he forgot how to take care of one.”