Page 31 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
"Let me on top," I gasp.
He rolls to his back, and I straddle him, sliding down onto his cock once more. The sensation makes me cry out—so full, so right. I ride him, rocking slow, then faster, our kisses frantic, our breath mingling. His hands grip my hips, guiding me as I move harder, faster, chasing the crest building inside me.
And then it hits. My whole body tightens, shattering as I scream his name, my climax ripping through me like sunlight through leaves. He groans, surging up into me, pulsing deep, giving himself over as we fall together into release.
When at last we collapse in the stillness, our bodies tangled and damp with sweat, the world returns: the sun beating down, the whispering leaves, the hum of an insect drifting past.
I nestle against him, my heart still racing, and in that quiet perfection, I feel like I've reached a new chapter in my life, turned a page. My old life is over, the new one is just beginning, though exactly what it will be like as yet I do not know. All I know is that whatever happens next, my world will never be the same again.
Time passes. An occasional puffy white cloud drifts across the sky like a cotton ball against the deep blue. A bird flaps lazily overhead, no doubt heading back to its nest. Insects buzz, the trees whisper in the breeze. It’s lovely. Natural. Normal. I reach out my hand, and he takes it in his.
Eventually, I roll onto my side and study him. He returns my look, smiling—open, honest. Nothing to hide.
“What’s on your mind, Princess?” he asks.
“Oh, so much I don’t even know where to start, Mister Mountain Man.”
He chuckles at the nickname. I study him in the sunlight—a fine example of a fit, healthy man of…
“How old are you, Toby?”
“I’m forty-one. Forty-two in November. Why… does it matter?”
“What? Oh… no, not at all. I was just wondering. I don’t care how old you are. I don’t think age matters all that much.”
“Me either. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
He whistles.
“Practically a girl still. I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of cradle-snatcher.”
“No, of course not.”
“Good.” He grins, clearly not serious.
“You’ve got tattoos.”
“Yeah. Just on my shoulders and back.”
“Show me.”
He sits half up, turning so I can see. Across his broad shoulders, ink comes to life—a tawny owl in flight across hisright shoulder blade, an eagle diving with talons outstretched on the left. The detail is intricate, the colors vivid, alive in the sunlight.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Thank you. Don’t you have any?”
I shake my head.
“Funny—I figured you would, kind of with the pink hair and all.”
“I’ve thought about it, but never got around to it.”
“What would you get?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe cherry blossom—like in those Japanese ink drawings. Maybe a raven sitting in the tree, surrounded by the blossoms.”
