Page 33 of Dead Devil's Playground
"You think you're up to the task?" I taunt, my voice deliberately mocking. "At your age, I'm surprised you can still—"
His hand wraps around my throat, cutting off my words. Not hard enough to restrict my breathing, just enough to make his point.
"Keep talking," he dares me, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. "Give me another reason to show you exactly what this old man can do."
In one fluid motion, he releases my throat and swings himself onto the motorcycle. Before I can process what's happening, his hands are on my waist, lifting me onto the bike in front of him. He positions me so my back is against the tank, my legs hooked over his own.
"What are you doing?" I ask, though it's perfectly obvious.
"Shutting you up the only way that works," he replies, his hands already pushing my skirt up around my waist. His eyebrows rise when he discovers I'm not wearing anything underneath. "Were you planning this?"
"No," I admit, heat rising to my cheeks. "I was in a hurry."
His laugh is dark and knowing. "Lucky me."
His fingers find me already wet, and he makes a sound of satisfaction low in his throat. "All that fight, all that rage, and look at you," he murmurs, circling my clit with his thumb. "So fucking ready for me."
My head falls back against the motorcycle tank, a moan escaping my lips as he slides two fingers inside me. The stretch burns in the best way, my body clenching around the intrusion.
"That's it," he encourages. "Let me hear you."
His fingers work me with devastating precision, finding spots inside me that make my vision blur. The cool night air against my exposed skin, the hard metal beneath my back, the stars spinning overhead—it all blends into a surreal backdrop for the pleasure building inside me.
"Hudson," I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asks, slowing his movements deliberately. "Tell me what you need, Rylan. I want to hear you say it."
I hate him for making me ask. Hate him for the knowing look in his eyes. But the need burning through me is stronger than pride.
"Fuck me," I whisper, the words barely audible over the distant sound of the city below us.
"I didn't quite catch that," he says, removing his fingers entirely. "Louder."
I grab his wrist, trying to guide his hand back where I need it. "Fuck me, Hudson. Now."
He smirks, satisfied with my surrender. I hear the rasp of his zipper, and then he's positioning himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, pushing in just enough to make me gasp. He has a goddamn fucking piercing. "To be filled by this old man's cock?"
"Shut up and fuck me," I growl, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer.
He enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me so completely that the air rushes from my lungs. For a moment, we both freeze, adjusting to the sensation, and I can’t help but register the subtle friction of not one but three little barbells sliding inside me. Then he begins to move, setting a pace that's just shy of punishing.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "Taking me so well. So fucking perfect around my cock."
Each thrust pushes me back against the motorcycle tank, the metal warming beneath my body. The position is precarious, the bike rocking slightly beneath us, but the danger only heightens every sensation.
"You want to know why I'm angry?" he asks, his rhythm never faltering. "Because every time you put yourself in danger, I see you lying broken and bleeding. Every time you push yourself past your limits, I imagine finding you collapsed somewhere I can't reach you."
His words cut through the haze of pleasure, touching something raw and vulnerable inside me. I open my mouth to respond, but he changes the angle of his thrusts, those tiny barbells rubbing a spot that makes coherent thought impossible.
"And the worst part," he continues, his voice strained with effort, "is knowing that if anything happened to you, it would destroy them. It would destroy me."
He punctuates this confession with a particularly deep thrust that has me crying out, my nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket.
"Hudson," I gasp, feeling the tension coiling tighter inside me. "I'm close—"
"Not yet," he growls, slowing his pace to a maddening crawl. "Not until I'm done telling you exactly what I think of you."
