Page 87 of American Hellhound
She slumped boneless against his chest, panting.
He smoothed her hair back off her face, petting her back, her ribs.
“Good girl.” He kissed her forehead, her temple. “Jesus, I just…” The awe in his voice warmed her in a whole different way, one she wanted to pull around her like a blanket.
She lifted her head for a kiss and he gave her one, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, demanding and on-edge.
Oh, she thought. Oh no. She was floaty and golden, but he was still hard.
With a new boldness brought on by afterglow, she fumbled her hand down to his lap and wrapped her hand around his cock.
He hissed, hips lifting up into her grip. “Baby, no, it’s alright.”
She fixed him with a stern look – as stern as she could manage in her post-coital haze. “I said I want you inside me, Ghost. I meant it.”
She thought his eyes might roll back in his head. “Jesus. You can’t just say…”
She gave his length one long, inexpert stroke, and he gritted his teeth.
“You can’t, baby, youcan’t– I’m gonna – Shit, shit, okay.” He kissed her again, teeth sharp on her bottom lip, panting into her mouth. “You sure? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be easy.” Gasping, almost pleading. “I will, I promise. I won’t hurt you too bad.” He rolled her onto her back, settled in between her legs.
Maggie caught his face in her hands, held him still. “Ghost,” she said, seriously. “I know you won’t hurt me. I trust you.”
He shut his eyes andwhimpered, turning his face into her touch, kissing her wrist. “Alright, baby. Alright.”
He pulled her legs up around his narrow hips, reached between them to line them up. And then the head of his cock was at her entrance, and he was easing in, and in, a fraction at a time. It wasn’t like his fingers – he felt huge. It did hurt, but she wanted it, wanted him. She gripped his arms and said, “I’m okay. I promise.”
And then he was all the way inside, and her throat closed up; she wanted to cry.
He leaned down and kissed her, holding perfectly still inside her. “I’m sorry,” he said against her mouth. “Is it too much?”
It was. It was the most overwhelming experience of her life. It was exquisite.
She settled her hands at his lower back, right in the sinewy dip above his ass. She thought she would always remember his eyes in that moment, hopeful and worried and brimming with emotion. “You’re amazing,” she told him, and felt a smile break across her face. “You have no idea.”
His hips kicked, an involuntary twitch in reaction to her words – and oh.Oh.
“You can move,” she gasped. “Oh, you can –please.”
He did. Easy at first, shallow and slow. The burn gave way to friction, to a tangle of sensation she couldn’t name. His body rolled above hers, all rippling muscle and slick tan skin, his breath coming ragged and deep as he thrust into her again, and again, and again.
He was beautiful. And he washers.
When he came, buried to the hilt, growling against her throat, back leaping under her hands, that was the blinding thought that carried her over the edge a second time: he washers.
Twenty
Now
When Ghost said, “Your boys gotta wait over there,” the Dark Saints president shrugged amiably and sent his crew to stand in the parking lot – where the cameras could have clear shots of their faces, and where Michael could keep a close eye on them.
Clubs were like medieval kingdoms: guest rite applied. Beer had hops and sodium – Ghost figured that counted as bread and salt. So Walsh brought out beer to one of the picnic tables and they sat down together, Dogs and Saints, presidents and vice presidents.
Ghost wrapped a hand around his pilsner glass, but didn’t lift it.
