The Other Man(9)

Again.

“Is everything all right?” I asked him, my voice hoarse like I’d been screaming.

Had I been screaming?  Had he literally made me scream?

Oh yeah.  Shit, he had.

It was an embarrassing thought, and I let my mind shy away from it, even as the sound of those desperate cries still echoed in my mind.

“All right?” he mused, his tone low, voice more road-worn gravelly and rough than ever.  “Yeah, I’m all right.”

I blinked at the way he said it, though I couldn’t read him well enough to know what to make of it.

His lip curled up like he was annoyed.  He reached an arm up, running it impatiently over his short-cropped hair.

Why did every move he made turn me on?  Every minuscule shift of his body made mine respond, breasts tightening, sex clenching.

He elicited reaction without trying, controlled me without even touching.

My eyes ran down his ripped to within an inch of its life body, moving over each mark and scar.  I found those marks to be fascinating and beautiful.  He didn’t wear them like they were flaws, and so they weren’t.  If it wasn’t so obvious what they were, I thought I could have been convinced that he’d been born with them all.

I knew better than to ask, I knew the answer, but I’d have loved to photograph him.

The artistry of his hard, massive, tortured body needed to be captured, even if its owner never could be.

I shook off the thought.  I couldn’t think things like that.  I barely knew this man, so why on earth would I want to capture him?

He’d never be mine.  I knew it instinctively, and so I didn’t let myself even wish for it.

My eyes widened as they finally made it down to his spent cock.

No, not spent.  Hard and getting harder, though I knew he’d gotten off when I had.

That was when I really started to appreciate the younger man thing.  My husband hadn’t taken good care of himself for a good decade before we’d split, and the softer he got, the softer his dick had gotten with him.

It’s funny how sometimes you don’t realize how much you need a thing before it’s right in front of you.  And suddenly, I needed that hard, tireless, randy, young cock like you wouldn’t believe.

I licked my lips.

“How old are you?” my mouth asked him, even while my brain didn’t actually want to know.

I mean, it was a little late for regrets.

He scowled, like really scowled, and on him that was a scary thing.  He was intimidating enough when he smiled.

When he scowled he looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he was a man who got what he wanted.

“Who cares?” he shot back.  This was clearly as sore a subject for him as it was for me.

“I care,” I answered softly, but more because I thought I should care, thought I should ask, thought I should need to know.

Really, though, I’d have just as soon avoided knowing.  My level of cougardom on this felt pretty irrelevant at that moment, all things considered.

“Twenty-five,” he said, tone abrupt.

I winced.

I’d been hoping for a higher number.  The higher the better, really.

“Not much older than my firstborn,” I said tightly.

He didn’t like that, as in really didn’t like it, going by the sudden and mean twist to his mouth.

Well, I didn’t like it either, but it was still the truth.

“What the f*ck does that matter?” he asked.

It mattered, of course it did, but I didn’t have a chance to vocalize an answer, as it was clearly a rhetorical question, because he was on me, kissing me again, fisting a condom on and f*cking me again, between one gasp and the next.

Good.  Even though I’d brought it up, I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it any time soon.  We clearly had better things to do.

I took his weight on me, his hardness in me, with a soft, needy moan.  It felt so f*cking good, like the first time hadn’t even happened, like I was as hungry for him as I had been not an hour before, with over a year’s worth of celibacy under my belt.

He was holding my wrists above my head again, needing only one hand to do so, the other palming my breasts, assaulting the soft flesh of my chest with his hand while his cock assaulted the soft flesh of my cunt in desperate earnest.

It was faster that time, as though he’d used all of his patience with the first mating.  He sucked the tip of one straining tit into his mouth while his free hand snaked down and started working my clit, bringing me over so fast that it caught me off guard, my breath sobbing out in one long, “Heeeaaaath.”

He growled like a wild animal into my skin, planted himself inside me, stayed planted, and I felt his thick cock twitching, bucking out his seed.

I said his name again, faster, wanting, needing to watch his face, and he lifted from my chest, eyes meeting mine, giving me that look again, the one that replaced the coldness.

More than any crave-able thing about him, I craved that brief, unguarded moment when he lost himself inside me.

I was lying on my bed, flat on my back, completely naked, covered only by a sheet.

My head was still spinning.

What the hell had just happened?

I’d never, never, NEVER had my body, my world, rocked like that before.  Heath f*cked like a force of nature—fierce, powerful, unstoppable.