Page 19 of His Big Hometown Cowboy
“Again?” I teased, turning in his arms to face him, pressing my palms flat against his wet, slick chest. Water streamed between us. “Insatiable, aren’t you?”
“For you?” His voice dropped to that gravelly register that vibrated straight through me, making my knees weak. “Absolutely.” A slow, hungry smile touched his lips. “Been thinking about bending you over in here since I installed this shower.”
“That right?” I traced the curve of his pectoral muscle with one finger. “And what exactly were you planning to do to me in this fantasy?”
His smile widened. “Why don’t I show you instead?”
He reached for the bar of soap—sandalwood—working it between those big hands until they were covered in thick, white lather. Starting at my shoulders, his touch was deliberate, thorough, firm but gentle. There was something profoundly intimate about him washing me like this.
Especially him. Wyatt Walker. Solid, stoic Wyatt, his hands moving over my skin with such focused care. Claiming me in a way words couldn’t.
“Turn around,” he murmured against my ear.
I obeyed, bracing my hands against the cool, wet tile, presenting my back to him. His soapy hands worked their way down my spine, over my shoulder blades, kneading away lingering tension.
When they reached my ass, the massage shifted. Less practical, more possessive. Fingers mapping the curves, squeezing gently. Then dipping lower between my cheeks, brushing deliberately over my entrance.
Still sensitive. Still tingling from last night.
A sharp gasp escaped me. I arched back instinctively, pressing against his touch.
“Sore?” His voice was a low rumble, his breath warm against my ear.
“A little,” I admitted, my voice breathy. “But… good sore.”
One finger pressed more insistently. Testing. A slight breach. The faint sting mingled with a wave of sharp pleasure, pulling a low moan from my chest.
“Want more?” His finger pushed deeper, the soap making the slide easy, slick despite my sensitivity.
“God, yes,” I breathed, pressing my forehead against the cool tile wall. Surrendering. “Want to feel you inside me again. Now.”
He worked me open slowly, methodically. Added a second finger with careful patience. His attention was absolute. The hot water cascaded over us, steam swirling, cocooning us in heat and intimacy as he prepared me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he rasped, his free hand coming around my hip to find my cock, stroking my length with slow, steady pressure. “Opening up for me.”
The rough tenderness in his voice… it undid me. My knees felt weak. I gripped the tile tighter, lost in the sensation. His fingers working deep inside me, his hand bringing me closer to the edge.
“Please,” I gasped, pushing back against his hand, needing more. Needing him. “Need you now, Wyatt.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving me feeling empty, aching.
“I’m going to fuck you so good, Timmy,” he promised, his voice thick with intent as he positioned himself behind me. I felt the blunt, heavy head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Hot, hard reality. “Going to make you feel me with every step you take today.”
He pushed forward. Slow, inexorable pressure. Despite his careful preparation, the stretch burned. He was big. So damn big. And I was still tender. But the initial sharp discomfort dissolved quickly into exquisite fullness.
“Fuck,” I hissed, the sound swallowed by the running water as he bottomed out, sinking deep, his hips flush against my ass.
His hands gripped my waist, holding me steady, anchoring me. “You okay?” Worry tinged his voice.
“More than okay,” I assured him, already pushing back against him, my body instinctively seeking more. Urging him on. “Fuck me, Wyatt. Hard.”
He withdrew slowly, deliberately, making me gasp at the friction, then drove back in with a force that slammed me against the wall, and caused stars in my eyes. My body yielded, accepting his size, his strength. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder. Pushing me forward until my hands slipped on the wet tile. I scrabbled for purchase, needing to brace myself against the onslaught.
“Sweetheart,” he grunted between thrusts, his pace relentless, powerful. “Your tight ass taking my cock. I love how fucking perfect you feel around me.”
Water cascaded over us, plastering my hair to my face, adding another layer of slick sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. His hand slid around my hip again, finding my cock, gripping me. Stroking me in time with his powerful thrusts. The dual stimulation was devastating. Too much.
I was careening toward the edge, fast.
