Page 67 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Jesse!” I cry, not just crying out loud, but actually sobbing, a scream of his name as I reach the cusp of climax.
“Let me feel you come, Imogen,” he snarls, driving relentlessly into me. “Let me feel you come around me.”
My right hand steals automatically to my core, two fingers pressing and circling, and I fling myself into oblivion.
“God that’s fucking hot,” he growls.
My eyes snap open and I realize he’s watching me, devouring my every move—my left hand is clutched to my left breast, cupping and squeezing, while my right drives me to the furthest, highest peaks of orgasm; he has my left hip in a crushing, bruising grip I can’t get enough of while his right kneads my right breast, flicking my nipple with his thumb, adding to the fury of my orgasm.
I’m screaming and screaming and screaming as I come—not wordless screams, though, but his name, over and over and over.
When the orgasm is wrung out of me, I’m left limp, and he’s still hard inside me.
“God, Jesse,” I whimper. “Oh my god.”
His grin is predatory. “My turn,” he rumbles.
“Your…turn?” I breathe, incredulous. “You haven’t come yet?”
“Did you feel me come? Did you hear me come?”
“No,” I say, my voice faint.
“Because I didn’t. I was waiting for you. I needed to feel you come first.” He lifts me up, pushes me backward, off of him. “And now it’s my turn.”
“Oh—oh god,” I whisper. “Please, Jesse, I need it.” I reach for him, aching at the loss of him. “Give it to me.”
I’m on my back now, and I’ve never wanted anything so badly as I want to feel him on top of me. He crawls over me, and I widen my thighs for him, welcoming him. Begging for him. His eyes rake over me, spread out beneath him, breasts drooping heavily to either side, belly heaving, breathless, from the still-quaking aftershocks of my orgasm, my core wet with soaking need, waiting for him.
“You are…so fucking beautiful, Imogen.”
Now why the hell does that make me cry? Actual tears drip from my eyes, at his words, unbidden and unwelcome and unstoppable.
His thumbs wipe them away, and his expression is…I would say tender, if it wasn’t for the ravenous, primal, seductive hunger in his eyes. I grasp him as he approaches me, taking his thick, latex-sheathed erection in my fist and guiding him to me. He lets me, shifting toward me, shuffling on his knees.
He doesn’t just flop over me in the usual missionary position—oh no, Jesse O’Neill does nothing so pedestrian as that. He remains on his knees, and he takes my ankles in his hands and tucks my feet into his armpits, stretching my legs apart, thighs in a wide V, knees pushed backward—opening me wider than I’ve ever been, so I can take him deeper than I’ve ever been filled. I cry out, a strangled, sob-laden, shock-laced sound of abandon.
Jesse starts slowly, as if we’ve just begun. As if I haven’t already come harder than I’ve ever come in my life. His hands cradle my inner thighs, gripping the tender silk of my flesh just to either side of our joining. And he drives, slowly, deliberately, into me. Pulls out. Slides in. With each thrust, he adjusts his angle so every time he fills me it feels slightly different, a new sensation, a subtle difference in the way his arousal strikes into me. It’s like he’s searching for something with his thrusts, as if they’re questing, seeking the perfect angle.
What is he looking for? I don’t know.
I can’t ask, I’m too breathless, too lost in sensation. Too lost in him.
And then, with a shattering detonation, he finds it. He finds the perfect angle. He knows when he finds it, too, because I scream without warning, my hips crashing helplessly against him. He thrusts now at that precise angle, faster and faster, each thrust dragging another scream out of me, forcing my hips to move, to match him, each thrust accompanied by a guttural grunt from him and a breathless scream from me.
“Jesse—” I gasp, “holy shit, Jesse, what are you doing to me?”
He has no words for me in reply, and I want none, need none—as long as he doesn’t stop.
He increases his pace with each thrust, never varying his angle, and I’m shaking with the force of his lovemaking—if you can call it that. It’s more carnal than that, I realize. It’s far more primal and animal than lovemaking. The raw carnality of this is undeniable, exhilarating, freeing.
He’s fucking me, and I can’t get enough.
I abandon myself to the furious eroticism of this, with Jesse, taking each pounding thrust and begging for more with my screams and my driving hips and my clawing hands.
How long can he last? I feel like we’ve been moving together for so long, for hours. Longer than I’ve ever had sex, certainly. And he seems no closer to his own release than when he started. I’m losing it, losing the battle to keep from coming yet again. I can’t deny myself the climax, can’t deny him his mastery over my body. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
