Page 27 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
Chapter 5
I tackle him, and not at all gently. Our bodies connect with a smack and a thud of bone and flesh and muscle colliding, and then I pin him to the bed and straddle him.
There are no thoughts in my head except to take.
No thoughts in me at all, beyond Franco.
Need.
Rapacious, ravaging need.
He’s stunned by my sudden ferocity. I claw my fingers into his chest, raking them downward as I writhe on top of him, seeking him, desperate for anything physical to take my mind off my emotions. He reaches for me, but I capture his hands, tangle our fingers. He tries to wrestle my hands away, trying to stop me or restrain me or I don’t know what, but he underestimates my raw strength, especially that borne of desperation. I battle his grip, keep his hands away from me; our eyes meet, briefly, and I see that if anything, I’m only turning him on all the more, but even that knowledge is a faint, distant understanding. All there is within me is need.
I move, sliding my slick core against him. I feel him. I feel that hot thick hard ridge, and I need it. God, I need it. I shift angles, still wrestling with his attempts to get his hands on me. Then—god yes—I find the perfect angle. The head of him catches against my opening and it’s only a matter of sinking my hips forward, thrusting, and he’s inside me, and I feel him spearing into me, a sudden hard impalement, my entire being spasming with ecstasy—not from an orgasm but from sheer relief at the feel of Franco, of him, this man who has some strange power over me.
“Audra—holy—holy shit, Audra…” His voice is ragged, gasping, the breath and sense stunned right out of him.
So thick inside me, so hot, so hard. So much. So perfect.
“Franco—” I gasp.
“Wait—wait. Audra, hold on—”
I pin his hands to the mattress, and he lets me, writhing with me. Against me. Thrashing and thrusting under me, giving over to the violent ecstasy of this, a passion so intense neither of us can deny it or control it or stop it.
“AUDRA!” he shouts.
“Franco—Jesus, Franco!” I’m screaming, the climax of our union slamming into me harder and more intensely than ever, than even the climax from the wand and vibrator—this is beyond that. More than that.
I bury my face into his chest and feel his heartbeat, taste it through his skin, my sweat commingles with his and we’re moving in perfect unison, his breath mine, and mine his, lips touching, matching breathless gaps and guttural groans—who’s making which sound? I can’t tell our sounds apart and that too is beautiful.
This is beautiful.
I come, squeezing, pulsing around his slick wet thrusts, and that’s more beautiful yet.
“Audra!” This time, there’s an urgency to his cry. “Wait—you have to stop.”
“Can’t—I can’t!”
“Fuck! You have to!” He’s desperate, his voice tense and strained.
With a sudden burst of strength, Franco levers me off of him and twists so I’m on my back and he’s above me. He’s no longer inside me and I’m desperate to get him back, to get more of him. He’s gasping, groaning through clenched teeth, hovering over me, pinning me to the bed, every muscle in his body tensed and straining with primal, animal power.
My eyes rake greedily over every inch of him, over every plane and bulge of sculpted perfection, finally landing on his erection, swaying and gleaming above my belly, huge and rock hard and wet.
And bare.
No condom.
“Fuck,” I whisper, realizing.
“Yeah…” he snarls.
“You—you—did you—?”
His eyes meet mine. “I didn’t come, no.”
“Holy shit.”
Never, ever, ever in my life, since the first time I had sex, have I ever forgotten to make sure my sexual partner was wrapped up. Drunk as a skunk and I still remember.
He’s still growling under his breath, every muscle tensed, and I realize he’s still holding back.
Oh no, no. That just won’t do.
“Franco, let me go.” I twist my wrists, trying to break his grip—he’s far too strong, even with the gentle grip as he has on me.
He doesn’t hear me, too focused on the effort to back away from his edge.
“Franco, let go.” I put some snap into my voice, and this time he hears me, responding immediately by releasing my wrists.
The second I’m free of his grip, I wriggle downward, scooting underneath him until his erection is at face level. He’s still breathing hard, eyes closed, on his hands and knees. Not paying any attention to anything except his struggle to hold back.
I take him into my mouth, and he grunts in shock. I taste…us. Him, me, our mingled essence.
I give him no chance to fight back, to tell me to stop, to be chivalrous or some bullshit. I clasp him in my hands and pump his length with both fists, and wrap my lips around him and suck, tonguing him. There’s no teasing or technique or buildup, just a sudden and all-out assault on him with hands and mouth.
