Page 67 of Our Long Days
That alone sends me hurtling toward my finish.
“Fuuuuck,” I grunt, spilling inside her, hips jerking.
“Oh god.” She folds in on herself, chasing her breath.
She doesn’t get the chance. I seal our mouths together, out of my mind with the need to taste her again. My hands slip overher ass, seeking out where we’re connected. I groan into the kiss when my fingers trace the wet, swollen lips of her pussy stretched around me, dripping with our releases.
With me.
Where it belongs.
“Dex,” she gasps when my index finger slides in next to my cock.
“You can take it.” My mouth lowers to her neck, kissing her tenderly as undiscovered, animalistic urges take over. “This cunt loves being full of me, doesn’t it, Trouble? You want more?”
She nods fervently, rocking herself on my fingers and cock. “Mm-hmm. Please.”
It’s tight, so fucking tight. She squirms on top of me, whining softly as I fuck my cum back into her.
Then, we’re moving.
I’m striding toward the tent, zero fucks about how obscene this is. As I lay her down on the thin mattress, we completely and utterly lose ourselves in each other again and again.
It’s almostmidnight by the time we unroll our sleeping bags, ready for a night under the stars. Florence’s lays untouched to my left while the woman herself stretches out on top of me. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. She’s oblivious to the twinkling sky overhead. Instead, the tips of her fingers trace over the exposed ink on my torso and arms.
She pauses over the great horned owl on the inside of my bicep.
“I like this one.” Her lips corkscrew. “Is it because you’re old and wise too?”
A squeal shrills through the air as my fingers dig into her sides. “We need to find something to do with that smart mouth.”
When she recovers from her laughing fit, she raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Is that so…”
Blood rushes to my cock. I’m not old by any means, but my refractory period isn’t what it used to be. Apparently, that doesn’t matter with Florence.
I smack her ass. “Behave.”
She grins. “Don’t worry—you’re still a lumbersnack in my eyes.”
“I’m afraid to ask what that is.”
As predicted, the temperature dropped. I’m in a pair of joggers, and Florence is in a pair of bright pink pajamas with llamas printed on them. She didn’t allow me to put on my sweatshirt and takes advantage of my bare skin, studying my tattoos lazily.
Her fingers skate down to my wrist. A sailing ship, tall waves crashing against its hull, sits over my pulse point.
“When did you get this one?”
“Three summers ago.” I shiver under her featherlight touch. “It’s my dad’s boat, the Triumph.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have an axe or ‘I love wood’ somewhere.”
“That’s on my ass.”
Her laughter peals out of her, harmonizing with the buzzing of cicadas and rustling of branches in the wind. “Oh, this I have to see.”
“You asking me to drop my pants, Miss Sadler?” My voice comes out a lot huskier than intended.
A rosy blush coats Florence’s cheeks. “Awful forward of you, Mr. Moore. Is that how you talk to all your employees?”
