Page 100 of Small Town Hunter

My eyes roll back in my head. Invading, taking, and my whole body and soul offers everything to his siege.

“Ohfuck…” He grabs my ass with both hands and shoulders me down to the bed. “Fuck this condom,” he pants. “You’re damn near pulling it off me. Sotight…”

I’ve never seen him like this. Every stroke he seems to lose more and more control. Eyes glazed, and taking an animal pleasure from my body. Frommypleasure.

It starts as a dust storm, a rambling surge of energy that steadily finds a core to tether it. He is the wind building faster, stronger, into a twister that will fly me away past everything I know.

He throws my leg over his waist and drives deeper, fucking me hard into the sheets that jump right off the mattress. I’m making sounds I never knew I could make. I’m digging my heels into his lower back and my nails into his shoulders. Inside me feels invaded, plundered, taken by my giant warrior whose love for me declares itself with every stroke.

I burst like a peach or a strawberry or whatever the hell, squirting my juices all over him. Is this normal? Is it always like this?

I love him.

His hand traps my scream of pleasure and in my ear he growls my name. “Trina. Trina?” His hand cups my face and his forehead presses to mine. Sometimes we read each other’s minds, me and Crash, and right now I think I know what he’s going to say.

He pulls up and his brown eyes lock with mine. “Trina,” he says as if he just had some huge epiphany.

“Yes?” My voice is like a sob. But I couldn’t be happier. This is the happiest I have ever been.

“Darlin’. My angel. What if we — ”

A knock on my door.

The door leading to the hall.

We freeze.

A woman’s voice calls, “Trina?”

“No,” I gasp. Crash moans in frustration and pulls out, leaving an empty ache between my legs.

“That’s not Mamie,” I mutter.

“Go answer it. Look first.”

Shoot!

Pissed, I throw the dress on, conscious of the slick arousal between my legs, and hurry to the door. Who canthatbe? I look through the peephole and you could bowl me over with a damned feather.

“It’s mymother,” I tell Crash.

He’s reaching for his boxers. Or maybe his gun.

Moment ruined.

No. No, it can’t be over already.

I open the door wide enough to stick my head out. I wonder what the hell she wants.

“Yes?” I say. “How can I help you?”

My mother looks like someone wrung her out in a washtub and left her to dry in a corner. Her clothes are immaculate but her face looks worn and tired.

“Trina. May I come in?” She asks sweetly.

“No. We can talk out here.”

“Out here in this hallway?”

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