Page 66 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
I lift up again, and this time, I know there won’t be any stopping. I clutch his shoulders for support as I rise, drawing him out, and then take another kiss from his mouth as we merge and crash together, our voices united in mutual ecstasy. Jesse clutches at me as I rise up again immediately, needing the fullness of him, needing the slide of his throbbing arousal through me. His hands hold me hard against his chest, holding him as he thrusts deep into me, my buttocks smashed flat against his thighs, my breasts in his face, his breath on my throat, his hair tickling and pungently male.
He falls backward without warning, taking me with him, and now I’m on top of him, straddling him, and his hands roam my back and my hips and my ass and then slide up to cup my breasts and flick my nipples, before palming my face and bringing my mouth to his.
“Ride me, Imogen,” he breathes, our lips brushing, his words felt as much as heard.
I have no choice but to obey—it’s what I need, more than my next breath, more than anything, I need to ride him to our mutual completion. There is nothing but sensation. Only him, only his scent, the powerful bulge of his muscles, the hard plane of his chest beneath me, his hips angular under mine, his arousal throbbing and hot and thick inside me, his hands exploring me, tangling in my hair and carving down my spine to cradle my ass, encouraging me to move.
Move; move.
I need it. I need the slide and grind—I claw my hands into his chest, leaning against him for balance, for support, my hair draping in brown curtains around our faces, blocking out all the world and even his room and the walls and the silver wash of the moonlight. I don’t want this to end, I don’t want to stop, I don’t even want to come yet, I just want to feel this forever, for as long as I can. I’ve never been so full, never felt so filled, never felt so stretched. My core aches and tingles from the thickness of him spreading me so far open, and I’ll know I’ll be so sore it’ll be hard to walk later, but it’s perfect right now and I don’t want to stop.
He thrusts, and I whimper; he drives deep, and now I can tilt my hips and sink against him and he goes even deeper and the sense of fullness and completion is so overwhelming another gasping sob is ripped from me. I sag forward, pulling away from him, moaning at the emptiness throughout me at the loss of him, and then I fall back, slamming my ass against him, hard. He groans in shock, and the next time I pull forward and begin my downward slide, he thrusts to meet me—his hips crash against me with a resounding slap, and his erection is all I feel, moving in me and through me, deep and deep and deeper. The next thrust, I lift up, balancing upright, stretching him away from his body and sitting down on him, impaling him deeper than ever.
His hands circle my hips and now he lifts, guiding me upward, and controlling the downward force, so I take him harder than ever, faster yet. I feel a crescendo rising in me, feel the swell in my core, the heat building and the pressure intensifying. My softness and his steel clash and merge in an ever-faster rhythm, slaps and moans filling the air, his grunts and my shrieks woven around each other.
I can hold it back no longer—I’ve been pushing the climax away, not wanting this to end, but he is relentless.
He senses me approaching the edge, perhaps feeling it in the way I clench around him, perhaps hearing it in the way my breath catches and the whimpers turn to screams. His hands cup my breasts and he relinquishes control over my rhythm, letting me take myself to the edge and past. He pinches my nipples, and I cry out—he flicks them, licks them, and I lose myself to the crushing force of my climax. I press my hands to his belly, just above the joining of our bodies, and now I can’t stop the approach of the climax even if I wanted to. I embrace it, now.
“Come for me, Imogen,” Jesse growls, and his words may as well be a command, one that I have no choice but to obey.
I writhe on top of him, grinding him through me, hips gyrating in wild, helpless circles, and my breasts shake and tremble and bounce and sway, and his hands are on my hips, encouraging me to go faster, faster—which I do. Faster, faster. My hands stab into my hair, yanking it back, and then as the climax becomes inevitable, a tsunami of smashing, inundating, scream-eliciting ecstasy.
