Page 41 of Bottle Rocket
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Leo wasbad at staying quiet while he was being fucked. It dragged every noise from his throat. Each time Rosie pushed into him, he cried out or groaned or grunted. He couldn’t help it.
It wasn’t going to take him long. His body was on high alert from being teased to the edge of reason. His prostate was extra sensitive after having the plug bumping up against it for so long, and his cock ached from holding back his orgasm.
That wasn’t what was overwhelming him, though. The sensations in his body were taking a backseat to the broken way Rosie was saying his name.
He loved his name on her lips. He loved the way she planted a hand on his ribcage, her fingers pressing into his skin. He loved the shine in her eyes. He loved her.
Fuck.
They were too good together.
Too good together to just give this up.
“Rosie,” he gasped as she picked up speed. She was amazing at this. Better than he could have ever expected. He put his hand over hers on his ribs, tangling their fingers together.
That felt more intimate than everything else they’d done. They were holding hands.
“What do you need, baby?” she asked. “Tell me what to do.”
“A hand. I need to touch my cock.”
“I’ll do it.”
She put her weight on his ribs, boxing him in. Then she spit into her other hand, which was so dirty he almost popped without anything on his cock at all.
He clenched down as she put her slick hand on his prick, and she slowed her thrusting, making each one count as she massaged his crown. She’d remembered. Focused attention on his tip was exactly how he liked it. She’d remembered and something about that was so beautiful and so heartbreaking.
“Oh God,” he breathed. “Rosie, I love”—heat flushed through him—“this. I love this. Fuck, yes. Please.”
His body locked tight. Sparks burst behind his eyelids, bright blooming eruptions of color. He bucked on the cock inside him and came in a rush over Rosie’s hand and his stomach.
The orgasm rocked him. He couldn’t talk, and his vision fuzzed out.
By the time he was able to have any semblance of a conversation, Rosie had already taken off the strap-on and cleaned up his stomach with a washrag.
“Hi,” he said. His voice was shaky.
“Hi. Are you okay?”
He nodded. “That was incredible.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Rosie. Fuck.” Little ripples of pleasure were still hitting him. He felt wrung out.
She crawled into bed with him and maneuvered them under the covers. She looked like an angel—naked, her hair a halo on his pillow, skin golden from his reading lamp.
A rowdy determination filled him. He’d always gone against the grain to some degree. He enjoyed rebelling. There was absolutely no fucking reason his relationship with Rosie needed to be any different. She expected it to go one particular way. He would do his damnedest to prove her wrong.
“I’m going to the farmer’s market tomorrow with my mom,” he said. “Will you come with me?”
Rosie tensed. “Your mom?”
“Yeah, she loves shopping. I’d love it if you would join us.”
He watched Rosie’s face closely. When they’d been eighteen, Rosie had worked for his parents at Froth and Forage. She’d been a hostess. He’d reluctantly been a waiter. Rosie’s grandma had been a prep cook—one of the three jobs she’d had to keep their family afloat.
