Rock Bottom Girl(82)

“Jake!”

“Mmmph.”

The world went cotton candy-colored with glitter and rainbows as I dry humped him to victory. I was so wet I worried about long-term damage to his mattress. It was like the rainy season in Costa Rica down there.

“Need you,” he groaned, releasing my breast.

We rolled closer to the side of the bed. I was on top of him, kissing the ever-living shit out of him. Blindly, he reached into his nightstand. The drawer crashed to the floor but not before he grabbed the tail end of another roll of condoms.

“Stay right there, baby,” he said, sliding me down his thighs far enough that he could roll the condom on.

I helped. And by “helped,” I mean I stroked his shaft with the desperate violence of the sex-starved woman that I was.

Then he was grabbing my hips and lifting me up. With eager fingers, I gripped him, lining the head of his erection up with my desperate-for-another-orgasm greed hole.

Notched in place, Jake stared up at me and gave one swift thrust.

I probably screamed. Why else would Homer start barking in the backyard? But it didn’t matter if the neighbors were waking up to screaming and barking. If they called the cops and reported us for disturbing the peace and unmarried sex—I assumed that was still a law on the books somewhere. It didn’t matter if Jake and I were sentenced to death by stoning.

The only thing that did matter was how beautifully full I was, impaled on his stone-hard cock. We froze like that for long seconds before I started to move. I wasn’t a reverse cowgirl—my quads weren’t strong enough—butthole-waxing, walk-in closet sex-toy-having kind of woman. I was experienced but not expert-level.

But something about Jake Weston groaning beneath me turned me into a wanton sex goddess.

And this wanton sex goddess was riding the stallion beneath her as if they’d both die if she—I—didn’t.

His hip thrusts hammered into me rhythmically as I rode him. Two bodies united in purpose. His fingers dug into my hips, and for once, I wasn’t concerned with how much flesh was there to hold on to. Or whether my boobs were bouncing too much or if I should have done more than just shave my nether region.

No, I was too busy ravaging and being ravaged.

Nothing had ever felt this good before. And I guessed nothing ever would. I could accept that. I could accept the fact that my sexual experience would peak at age thirty-eight at the hands—and penis—of Jake Weston. I was willing to have nothing but mediocre sex for the rest of my life if I could have him like this now.

His hands were at my breasts now, cupping and stroking, busy thumbs rubbing over my at-attention nipples.

I dropped my head back and released a long groan from my throat. Perfect. Everything was perfect.

“You were made for me, baby,” he gritted out.

“Don’t make this weird.” I gasped for breath.

“You don’t make this weird,” he countered.

“Stop talking.”

On a dirty, guttural growl that had my vagina standing up and applauding, Jake shoved and rolled. He came up on his knees. “I want to have you every way possible,” he said, pushing me onto my belly.

Grabbing my ankles, he pulled me back against him. I scrambled eagerly to my hands and knees. “Is this good with you?” he asked. I felt him teasing me just outside my entrance. The tip of his shaft nudging, waiting for permission.

“God, yes.”

Carefully, slowly, enticingly he sank into my flesh. “Oh, yeah, Mars. Yeah, baby.”

He pulled out and just as slowly thrust back in. His hands, those broad palms, caressed my back, my hips, my ass cheeks. And all the while, he fucked me.

It felt like…poetry. The perfection of my body welcoming his, embracing his. I was better because he was inside me.

And the way he moved in and out of me. It was like worship, obsession.

I could feel sweat forming on our skin. Hear our ragged breaths as we embraced a more reckless speed. He rolled his hips against me on a long, deep thrust, and I pushed back against the mattress to take all of him.

He leaned forward, hinging over me, one hand gripping my hair. His lips moving against my ear.

“I love this, baby. You’re perfect,” he whispered. He was losing the steadiness. Abandoning the finesse. Now, he was a beast in rut, and I was the object of his lust.

He released my hair and grabbed my breast, palming it as it bounced and wobbled from every hard thrust.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered on a rasp. “Touch yourself for me, Mars.”

I obliged, circling my clit with eager fingers. Dipping my head, I looked under me. I saw his hand working my breast. Watched his dick tunnel into me, his balls slap against my thighs. Over and over. Faster. Harder.

His grip on me was punishing, and I fucking loved it because I was coming apart at the seams. My fingers blurred at their work, and I couldn’t hang on any longer. I was going up in flames.

“I feel you, baby. Let it happen,” Jake breathed.

I let go, flinging my body into the epicenter of the explosion. My body was light and heat. I could feel the orgasm in my fingertips and toenails. Those deviously talented little inner muscles clamped down on him so hard he groaned.

I rode it out, spiraling out of control.

“Can I come on you?” The question was far away but desperate. I could hear the clench in his jaw, the rawness in his throat.