Page 78 of Yours Truly

Make this woman yours.

Though as she chants she’s on the brink of coming, her nails marking my knees as she gains momentum on my dick, I think she’s making me hers.

And I want that. As much as I wanted to ink, as much as I wanted Trace Tats and Needle Ninjas. No, that’s a lie. I don’t want it as much. I want it more.

“Trace,” she cries, her head falling back, exposing the smooth column of her throat and the underside of her jaw. Future memories and possibilities flash behind my eyes as my orgasm tears up my legs and sears through my shaft, making my cockhead throb deep inside her cunt. A smile on her lips, her body curved over my chair at Ink Time, my gloved hand at her throat, inking our initials into her velvet skin.

My eyes snap shut as I explode, filling the condom in shuddering, powerful bursts, the feel of her cunt squeezing and milking me only making me come harder. Groans and moans tumble together around us, hers and mine, skin slapping skin, finally, I open my eyes. Her head is tipped forward, the ends of her long hair dusting my knees as she smirks that same fiery smirk she gives me at work.

“I fucked you,” she smiles, slowly rising up until she’s empty, my partially stiff cock slapping onto my belly. Using her hands under my knees, she lowers my legs to the mattress, laying me flat. Reaching for the condom, she stops, her fingers at the ringed base.

“You come a lot,” she says, poking the full tip of the rubber.

I shake my head against the bed. “I think I’m still coming,” I tease, my cock twitching slightly in the sheath, another drop of cum slipping free. My balls are still thrumming, too.

She laughs, slowly rolling the condom off of me before tying it and sliding off the bed. In the en-suite bathroom, I hear the toilet and sink, and when she returns, she’s got a wet cloth in her hands.

Slowly, she moves the cloth over my cock, swiping away the stickiness, cleaning me up entirely. Tossing it to the floor she flops down next to me, stroking her hand over my chest as she rests her head on my shoulder. I reach out and grab her leg, bringing it to rest over mine.

“You a cuddler?” she asks with a yawn.

“Nah, haven’t cuddled in years.” I twist my head, peering at her through one open eye, my heart racing at the sight of black hair strewn over my bed. “But I like being tangled up with you. In my bed.”

“Hmm,” she sighs, “so if you don’t cuddle, what do you do after sex?”

My face tingles. “Drink.”

She rolls and rocks, positioning herself on her elbows as she peers down at me. “Let’s go paint,” she offers, and while I had no intention of jumping up and grabbing a bottle, I like that she’s trying to protect me.

Off the bed and on her feet, Ivy pokes through an open box on the floor, dragging out one of my t-shirts. She holds it up and without asking, slips it over her head, pulling her hair out of the collar. Finding her panties, she puts those back on, too, then claps her hands at me.

“C’mon, this place isn’t gonna paint itself. And I’m hungry.” And with that, she’s traipsing down the hall, and I’m smiling at my ceiling like a damn fool.

Two empty cans of gray paint and we’re taking a break to eat the takeout from Goode’s we ordered. Ivy sinks into the couch, her Styrofoam clamshell in her lap, her long hair on top of her head, secured with a pencil.

“These walls drink paint. I can’t believe we already went through two cans and we only did the dining area,” she says, popping open the lid, the smell of sweet potato fries and chicken hitting my nose. My stomach rumbles.

In my jeans and nothing else, I take a seat next to her, placing two cans of Coke on the table in front of us. I pop hers open, then mine, and sit back with my own food.

“I know. I think we’ll be painting for another week at least, even though this place is pretty small.” I toss a French fry into my mouth and groan. Food has tasted better lately, and I know that could be the lack of booze in my veins, but I also know it could be the pretty lady next to me, too.

“I like it, though. I mean, I grew up in a pretty cozy house and… I don’t know. There’s something about being able to shout from your room to the kitchen and hear someone. I like it,” she says, taking an enormous bite of her sandwich.

“Yeah?” I ask, taking a bite of my own sandwich. I went with a club this time, and fuck if it’s not the best sandwich I’ve had yet. I groan and she nods, pushing a rogue piece of lettuce into her mouth as she gloats, “Told you Goode’s is… good.”

We smirk at one another with our mouths full, and she twists on the couch, legs crossed beneath her tray. “And yeah. I mean, part of living in a small town like Bluebell is liking things small, right? That goes for trust circles, house sizes and?—”

“Not cock size,” I interrupt with a wink.

She rolls her eyes. “If I loved a man, and he had a small dick, it wouldn’t matter.”

I nudge her with my elbow as I take another bite. “Good thing you’re not in that situation.”

She pauses, and our eyes idle as I stop chewing. The insinuation hangs between us, unspoken but understood. My skin prickles with heat, and the back of my neck burns.

“Good thing,” she finally says, taking another bite.

I change topics, not allowing myself to bask in the fact she didn’t challenge me on that. And we both know it’s not about my dick size.

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