I’m half tempted to let him know I like a good skull cracking as much as the next girl but forego the smartass remark lest I bite my tongue off in the process. Instead, I manage to twist my neck just enough to land myself in the gushy pillow, neck-crick be damned, I’m not slowing this train down.
“Um, yes, I kind of—” Shit. That was supposed to be rhetorical, wasn’t it? Of course it’s rhetorical, stupid!
A pained smile twitches on my lips as he jostles further into me with his vigorous charge. I can only imagine the workout he must be getting. Who needs cardio at the gym when you’ve got a hearty game of lust and thrust waiting for you at home? In comparison to this Civil War reenactment, Will and I had taken tantric sex to a whole new level—otherwise known as hibernation. Come to find out, I’m more of a rough and tumble kind of a girl, and it took Wyatt James and his rock ‘em sock ‘em penis for me to see the lascivious light.
“Say it.” His voice is clipped and loud, pulling me from my momentary trance.
“Yes, I like being fucked!” I shout a little too enthusiastically and cringe because, well, open windows. “What about you? You like being fucked?” I cringe again. I’ll take a wild guess, that’s not something any man ever wants to hear. It’s safe to say dirty talk isn’t my forte. The word choice was embarrassingly unoriginal for one, and two, emasculating.
“Oh? Are you going to fuck me?” He gravels it out with a dark laugh, and suddenly I’m sorry the expletive ever drifted from my lips. “Come here.” In one acrobatically engineered move, Wyatt flips me through the air, and I land square over his hips as he nests comfortably into the mattress.
“Just like that I’m on top,” I marvel.
“Climb on board, sweetheart.” He runs his finger over the sole of my foot, and I jump landing right over the bulls-eye.
“Wow, you’re highly skilled at this.” Like some sexual ringmaster, but I leave that part out. It’s becoming crystal clear Wyatt has his mattress moves pretty well orchestrated.
“That’s it.” He groans. There’s just enough light streaming in from the window for me to see the ecstasy imprinted on his face. Wyatt sinks his head deeper into the pillow as his eyes squeeze tight.
He wasn’t kidding when he said climb on board. This is a serious pole to contend with. I’ll admit I’ve never really been on top. Like ever. I’m starting to doubt Will and I ever had sex. It was more of a ploy to pull me in on one of his masturbation sessions. That would explain a hell of a lot.
So like how does this work anyway? I lean forward and try to mimic his pumping motions, exhausting myself after three measly tries. Oh, wow, this is going to be a disaster. I can already feel the burn in my thighs, and, truth be told, I’m the last to appreciate a good workout. Wyatt is actually going to deflate waiting for me to get things underway. I give it a few more go’s, employing a few hopping moves, trying my best to convince myself that my thighs have suddenly morphed into springs, but I’m more of a lethargic duck than I am jackrabbit.
“You’re so damn good.” He taps my thigh lightly, trying to sway me to move things along while kneading my bottom with his fingers. Either Wyatt James is a bald-faced liar, or he’s never had a woman on top. Although I’m convinced it’s the former, I’ll excuse his need to bleed a little white lie in the name of encouragement. Wyatt is sweet that way.
I bounce harder, tiring myself out, just wishing it were me on my back smiling like a loon, doling out the encouraging thigh slaps. This is a helluva lotta work.
“At a girl. Keep going.” He grazes my back with his warm hands, reminding me of the fact that I might be cryogenically freezing to death up here, yet, again, sponsoring a serious case of mattress envy.
“Let’s switch positions,” I announce, trying to make it sound as if I’m up for anything when all I really want is to secure the warm, comfy spot on the bed and for Wyatt to do all the sex stunts and dirty talk. Come to find out, I’m more of a sloth in the sack than cheetah—although it’s not without a pang of consciousness. With an attitude like mine, I’m erasing all the hard work of the women who came before me (double entendre withstanding). Women have worked by the sweat of their brow to reduce their men to talking pogo-sticks. And here I am trying to manipulate my way onto my back. I wonder how many female forerunners of the sexual revolution finally decided, after a few less-than-celebratory thumps—meh—the missionary position is not that bad a deal.
“I’m in.” Wyatt, ironically pulls out, and the next thing I know I’m bent over the side of the bed as he plunges back inside from a standing position.