Page 50 of Catching Sparks

A brow twitches. His thrusts become punishing, each one rocking me forward further up the bed.

I’d beg. Fuck. I’d beg him to finger fuck my ass if it meant he’d do it. I don’t hide that from my expression, keeping it open for him to see. He can win this one. I’ll hand him the title belt as soon as I come.

His smile is wicked as he sees all of that and finally gives me what I want.

“Come for me, Poppy,” he commands, sinking his finger into my ass.

It’s enough to push me over the edge. Gloriously drunk on the blast of pleasure, I coil and then release, going stiff, then loose. My ears pop and crackle. I don’t mean to slash my hand over his chest, nails at the ready, but when he drifts back into focus, I find the scratch marks over his pec. It would be a damn claiming mark in any other situation, but not this one.

“Do it again,” he groans, shocking me.

He puffs hot, short breaths from between his thinned lips, pumping into me with abandon, his pleasure at the forefront of his mind now that I’ve had mine. It flicks a switch inside of me. I grab his shoulder, digging my nails into his skin and dragging them downward, over his chest, beside my previous marks, now lined with tiny droplets of blood.

With a finger still in my ass and a cock battering my swollen pussy, I snare his wild eyes and ask, “Do you need me to push a finger in your ass, Garrison? Is that what you need to finally fill me with your cum?”

“Fuck!” he shouts, throwing his head back.

His thrusts falter, and he abandons my ass to hold both my knees. He comes hard, as hard as I did. The condom keeps me from feeling the warmth of cum shooting deep, but I’m too focused on what set him off than missing out on that sensation. A million possibilities ripple through my mind, but I keep them to myself, stroking a hand over his chest as he comes down from his high.

“Can I stretch my legs out now?” I ask softly a minute later.

He nods once. Trailing his hands over my thighs, he massages the tight muscle before guiding them to the bed. My heart stumbles for a beat. I’m exhausted.

The room goes dark when I close my eyes and focus on the feel of him slipping out of my sore centre and shifting on the bed. “I need a minute before I can move.”

“I’ll clean you up.”

I open a curious eye, but he’s already padding off to the bathroom, his round, perky ass still bare. A hum builds and dies in my throat as I wait.

And wait.

And wait a bit longer.

The silence in the room stretches, exhaustion digging deeper. I don’t look at the time, uncaring how late it is. He can take as long as he wants. I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit as I wait.

18

GARRISON

Once I’ve soaked my face with cold tap water, I dab at the scratches on my chest with my wet fingers. She got me good, deep enough to have drawn blood before the cuts crusted up. They sting as the water clears away the blood smears, and I use the discomfort to reel myself back in.

Once they’re clean, I take the purple hand towel from the rack and dry my face and then my chest. I’m tired, my energy fading the longer I stand here. The drive back to the ranch is daunting as I hang the towel up and find a clean cloth from the cabinet before heading back to the bedroom.

My steps falter when I find Poppy asleep, splayed out on the rumpled comforter with her arm thrown over her eyes and lips parted. Her breaths are loud and heavy, and I consider how long I was held up in the bathroom for her to get that deep in sleep. I didn’t think it was that long.

With quick movements, I collect my clothes and get dressed. Then, I set my hands on my hips and stare at her, contemplating what to do next. Surely I have to get her cleaned up and in bed properly. She can’t go to work tomorrow with sore muscles and knots in her neck from lying in such a terrible position. I can’t imagine holding herself up on a pole would feel great with that sort of discomfort. It’s bad enough leaning over a desk with a twinge in your shoulder, let alone what she does every day.

She stirs when I kneel at the edge of the bed and bring the cloth between her legs, wiping away the mess we made. With her eyes peeking open, she releases a soft, sleepy sound from the back of her throat and smiles.

“I never took you for the aftercare type.”

“I never took you for the falling asleep two minutes after sex type.”

Her laugh is hardly more than a whoosh of air. “Fair enough. Take it as a compliment.”

I do.

Finished with the cloth, I drop it in the bin of overflowing laundry in the corner of the room. My skin itches at that pile. Call it a flaw in my genetic makeup, but clothes have always been one thing that has to be sorted at all times. Once a bin is half-full of dirty clothes, they go in the wash. As soon as they’re clean, they’re folded and put away.

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