Page 56 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
We move together.
His groans fill my ear and travel, echoing and rebounding, into my soul, his groans of such sweet abandon that I know he’s never known a moment like this any more than I have. Those sounds, those breathless gasps, those quiet feminine sobs—is that me? I’m a screamer, a shrieker, a thrasher…not this writhing, undulating, clinging, half-weeping, half-whimpering woman. But it is me—it’s me as I fall apart beneath Franco, it’s me as I understand how fully I belong to him.
I tell myself I hate it.
I fight it.
But I might as well try to hold back a tsunami.
It’s like trying to contain a supernova.
I can’t…and I don’t want to.
I can’t hate it, and I can’t fight it.
Because, at this level of intensity, hate and love are essentially indistinguishable.
Franco is panting, now. His grunts are breathless, his movements frantic. Wild. Feral. His grip on the nape of my neck is fierce and unbreakable, and I must look at him now—I have to turn my eyes up to his, have to open my eyes and stare into his drowning blue gaze and not look away, because my own movements are just as frantic, just as desperate. My body is a wild beast, undulating madly as I slash my hips against his, levering my legs around his waist and clinging to his shoulders and writhing with all my strength against him as raw unfiltered passion crashes into me and explodes through me. I feel him—all of him. I feel with every molecule of my body all that is Franco as we unite.
I feel him driving through my clenching core, and I feel him throb, feel his balls tense and shudder as he cries out, and I feel him pulse and engorge and I’m spasming around him, clamping down on him like a vise, making me feel every shudder and pulse and throb as he orgasms all the more intensely. I seize around him, wailing past sobs, my teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle myself, and then I feel Franco tighten and stiffen above me and his movements become harsh and ravaging, and his grunts are deep and feral to counterpoint my high breathless cries.
A hot wet rush floods through me and Franco is groaning and his face is buried between my breasts and I’m clutching him against me with my whole body arching up off the bed into him and against him, and I’m unable to even scream for the paralytic power of the climax that crushes me in that moment, snatched out of me at the feel of Franco unleashing himself inside me.
We cling to each other through the smashing waves that follow, gasping and groaning and whimpering.
“Franco…” I whisper his name.
“Audra,” he breathes mine, sounding nearly as stunned and broken as I feel.
There is a long, long silence, Franco lying partially on top of me, his weight beautiful and welcome and somehow tender and vulnerable, my fingers toying with his hair, his breath on my skin, his erection softening inside me.
Something wet and hot drips through me, and my breath catches in a sharp gasp as awareness lances into me.
I clutch frantically at his face, tilting it up so I can look into his blue eyes. “Franco, we just—”
“I know.” He rolls with me and I find myself sheltered in the circle of his arms, and I’ve never ever in my life ever felt so small and delicate and safe as I do now.
“Franco, we can’t just—” I start.
“Can we not? Can we just…for one minute, please, can we just not? None of it.” His voice is ragged and raw. “Just for a few minutes. I’m just a guy, you’re just a girl, and we’re just having this moment. You and me, together.”
“Okay,” I whisper. Because…he’s perfectly right.
I just breathe, resting my cheek against the warm, firm cushion of his chest, feeling his arm around my waist, his hand resting on my hip. I settle a hand on his belly, and I listen to him breathing, listen to his heartbeat. It’s a soothing sound, the gentle susurrus of his breath, and the steady thump-thump of his heart.
But there’s the seeping of his seed sliding out of me, wet and hot. And I can’t just forget that. I can’t ignore it.
“I—” I shake my head, pushing away from him. “I need to—I have to clean up.”
Franco stops me with a hand on my breastbone. “Stay there. I’ll get a washcloth.”
I lie back down hesitantly, and Franco goes out into the bathroom, the pale firm roundness of his tight ass mesmerizing, even then. The bathroom isn’t en suite, so I only hear him. I hear water running, and I assume he’s cleaning himself up and then he returns to the bedroom, and even more mesmerizing than his butt is his cock as it dangles and sways between his heavy thighs. It’s not often I stick around long enough to get a look at the guy when he’s not erect, so this is kind of interesting for me, to be honest. And, despite the stress and pressure and fracturing intimacy and tense vulnerability of the moment, I find his flaccid member incredibly intimate.
