Page 69 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Jesse…” I gasp, his words hitting me as hard as his slow, inexorable thrusts. “Keep talking. Tell me everything. I need to hear it from you.”
He leans over me, reaching under to cup my breasts, pushing into me, his hips squashing hard against my ass. “You need to hear me say it? I told you before how much I love this,” he says, one hand caressing my butt as the other kneads my breast. “How much I love your ass.”
“I don’t think I believed you,” I admit.
“Do you believe me now?” he demands, leaning backward again, upright on his knees behind me, both hands on my buttocks now, pulling their heft apart so he can drive deeper with his slow thrusts.
“I’m starting to,” I say.
“What else do you need to hear to believe? Your ass is perfect, Imogen.” He has my ass in a palmed grip, braced for each thrust. “I can’t get enough of it.”
“Take all of it, then,” I say. “Show me how much you like it.”
He speeds up, as if he can’t help it. Each thrust finds his hips slapping against my butt, and each thrust drives him into me so I whimper, and gasp, and shriek at the beautiful penetration of him. And then, on his next thrust, he pats his hands against my buttocks.
“How about that?” he says, “you like that?”
I nod, turning to watch him over my shoulder. And, in this position—no longer on my hands and knees, but only on my knees, my entire torso flattened against the mattress to lift my ass high into the air, I can see the beauty in my curves. I see the sensual eroticism in the uplifted spread of my ass, in the curve of my spine, in the power in my legs. And now, as he taps my buttocks in time with each thrust, I begin to feel the burn of arousal scorching away the doubts, a conflagration of need searing away my self-consciousness.
He smacks my ass harder. “You like that, Imogen?” he demands.
I nod. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Do it again.”
He drives into me, his hips smacking hard even as his hand slaps even harder. The sting is beautiful, adding to the crashing heat of my building climax.
“You like it when I spank you?” he growls.
“Yes, Jesse.”
“Say it.”
“I like it when you spank my ass,” I breathe, almost breaking into giggles hearing myself say that. But it’s too dirty and too arousing to be funny—especially as I realize he’s actively holding back.
His jaw is clenched, and his thrusts are more measured, and he’s gasping raggedly, growling with each thrust. I need his orgasm. God, I need it. I’ve had three—almost four now—and I want to feel him lose control.
“Jesse, please,” I whisper, brazenly begging. “Please.”
“Please what, Imogen?”
“Come,” I breathe. “Give it to me. Spank me, fuck me—let me feel you come.”
“I don’t want it to end,” he says, even as he thrusts harder. “I don’t want to stop.”
“I don’t either.” I push back into his thrusts, now, and my orgasm is not being brought on by his touch or my own, nor by his mastery over my body, but by raw arousal, by the raging, driving, coruscating need for him brought on by our joining. “But I need you. I need to feel you come. Please, Jesse.”
He’s growling helplessly, and his thrusts speed up to a wild, manic, furious onslaught. He stops spanking me and just claws his hands into the trembling, bouncing flesh of my ass as he thrusts; his growls turn to grunts, and then his grunts turn to a roar, and he’s gone, utterly animal now, all control lost. I watch him over my shoulder and give myself to the moment, my own climax—my fourth—tearing through me like a wildfire, my screams meeting his bellowing snarl of orgasm.
Each of his thrusts is accompanied by a greedy caress of my buttocks, and this, the way he palms and kneads and caresses my ass as he gives me his orgasm, does more to erase my self-consciousness than anything he could say. He could conceivably fool me and lie to me with his words, but he can’t fake that, not as obviously gone as he is into the depths of climax. His possessive appreciation for me in that moment of abandon cannot be faked.
“Ohhhh…” he breathes, his moment of release turning him breathless, his roars and grunts gentled to a ragged, helpless groan. “Ohhhh fuck, Imogen…”
I’m with him, then, squeezing and clenching around him, crying out, taking each slow hard grinding thrust with a backward drive, wanting it deeper, needing him harder.
We come in unison.
I feel him release even as my climax crescendos inside me, turning me into a writhing, thrashing, lust-crazed beast.
His orgasm is endless, it feels like, thrust after thrust of grunting, groaning, cursing release, his hands slapping, cupping, gripping, kneading, and caressing my ass through it all.
