Page 35 of Flying High

“I’m going to have to fuck you slow, Abbi. Just like this. I need you longer.” I’m laying myself bare here, and I can hear the vulnerability in my voice. I’m getting too riled up, too close to the edge of oblivion, and I want to make it last. I have to get her there again.

And again.

Abbi slips slightly on the glass as though she’s floored at my dark promise. I raise a hand to steady her, one of my large hands almost covering both her smaller ones up high on the glass, our fingers twining. The sight of where our hands touch does something funny inside my chest.

I’m such a goner for this woman.

Reluctantly letting go of her ass, I snake my spare hand around to her front and slip it down low, cupping her heat, feeling where I’m pumping in and out of her body. My eyes roll back at that discovery, and she gasps when I widen my grip on her center and shift her back slightly with that hand alone, to change the angle.

“Oh fuck, Dean. Yes!” Manhandling her this way is officially approved. Enthusiastic consent would be the understatement of the year.

The bench thumps once, twice against the glass, and I start to pick up the pace, this new, deeper glide of my cock causing flutters inside her tight channel. She tightens around me, and I curse, trying to pause deep inside her. I don't want this to be over any time soon, it too damn good. Our loud breathing is the only sound in the room.

“Keep your hands right there on the glass… just like that.” I let her hands go and shift until my knees are right under her split legs, drawing her down onto me. Holding onto her hips, I thrust right up into her and see stars. Her cry of pleasure almost drowns out the rush of blood in my ears.

I continue with these new upward strokes, letting gravity help me in bottoming out, and watch her tits bounce in the reflection in the glass. Fuck her tits are amazing. Full and round, more than a handful, in short perfection. This visual, accompanied by the slick and filthy sounds our bodies are making where they’re joined is the end of me. Our pace increases, both of us hunting down euphoria. Then with one last, hard thrust, it overtakes us both. Abbi drops her head back and shuts her eyes, coming apart, letting out a long, tortured moan.

I pull her back against me, hands over her belly as I grunt, filling the rubber with my release. It’s the most intense climax I can ever remember. Not that I can think straight right now. My cock jerks for what feels like minutes, and she continues to pulse around me.

As I bury my face against her neck and pull out, I’m not ready to release her from my hold. I brush back a lock of hair and kiss her temple. “Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, she twists, and our mouths meet furiously. I can’t get over the way we fit together, like we were made for each other. She’s heaven—glorious, perfect, paradise. When her hips wiggle, the awkward twist becoming uncomfortable, I tuck my hand under her, lifting her away from the windows and retreating to the couch. After taking care of the condom, I pull her in close again, ass in my lap, legs bent and tucked in against my side. I want to curl up with her forever.

I give in to the urge to continue exploring her body, to continue kissing her. My hands run up and down her legs, dipping down to her hot, swollen core, petting her until her chest is heaving, and then moving on, searching out a new spot to play. She doesn’t make a sound, but her nails into my shoulder leave little half crescents. Her silent desperation is somehow sexier than if she’d let out a wild scream.

“Dean, it’s not enough,” she pants next to my ear. The sweetest words I’ve ever heard.

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