Page 33 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
He jerks away with a grunt. “Fuck! That feels too good, Laurel.”
I stand up, following him, taking the condom from him. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”
“Yeah, a little too well. You do that again, and this will be over before it starts.”
I fit the condom over him, and then roll it down his shaft with both hands. “That would be okay with me. We have the whole weekend.”
“I know, but Laurel…” He palms my face, moving in for a kiss. “That’s not how this is going to go. That’s not how I want you. Not right now.”
I smile. “No? Then how do you want me?”
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me toward him. “Like this.” He guides my knees up onto the bed beside his hips. “For now, at least.”
I climb up onto the bed, straddling him. He gazes up into my eyes, his hazel gaze intense and wild and fraught with lust and need and something deeper, something wilder, something more. I grip him, and I feel his fingers at my opening, and together we guide him to my entrance. He takes over, moving my hand aside, fitting himself just inside me. He thrusts in a slow, shallow, gentle, rolling movement, so just the very head slides in and out of me, splitting the lips apart but not quite entering. Teasing. I’m up on my knees, over him. Mouth open, eyes wide at the delicious, burning stretch from this little bit of him.
I touch myself, and his eyes go to my slowly circling fingers. “God, Ryder. I’m already close.”
He rumbles. “Good. Let me watch you come.”
His mouth goes to my breast, nuzzling, and then his teeth saw gently at my nipple—he cups my breast, lifting it to his mouth, and laves attention on it, then both of them, his hips flexing in that same slow, shallow rhythm that’s nowhere near enough. But it’s somehow perfect, just enough, almost too much, as I smear my two middle fingers around my aching center, his mouth on my breasts ratcheting the intensity a millionfold, the tease of him being almost inside me taking it further yet.
I whimper as the first wave hits.
Sob as the second rolls over me.
My hips flex on their own and a loud cry escapes me as the third and strongest wave yet crashes through me.
He’s still pushing and receding in that same maddening shallow thrust—just barely moving into me, barely penetrating my lips. I’m gasping nonstop, now, as the orgasm rises, rises.
“Oh fuck—Ryder.”
He moans wordlessly around a mouthful of my breast—he’s worshipping them, kissing and devouring and licking, cupping and squeezing and kneading, flicking and pinching and rubbing.
“I—oh god. Ryder, I’m—oh, oh, oh god, oh god—I’m coming!” I cry this, raggedly, as the orgasm smashes through me.
And now I have no choice but to take him, all of him, all at once.
He bellows a feral, bull-like roar as I slam down, my ass slapping loudly against his thighs as he speared up into me, filling me. I scream as I take him, aching as he stretches me beyond capacity, so much of him it’s almost too much, and I can’t breathe for the ache, the burn, the eye-watering fullness. It almost hurts, but the orgasm is still smashing through me, wave after wave as my fingers fly around my clit, and the climax spurs me to move.
I cry out, a burst of shrill, breathless ecstasy. I curl forward, his face buried between my breasts, my nose in his hair, my arms around him, my fingers clawing desperately at the hard muscle sheathed in soft skin. He drives up, and I’m filled further. I lift up, emptied of him, crying at the lack, the loss, and then sob as I sink down to meet his thrust.
“Laurel—” His voice is ragged, guttural. “Jesus, Laurel.”
“I know.”
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” He releases my breasts and cups my face instead; eyes closed, I still somehow unerringly know where his mouth will be, that he’s seeking mine, and we meet, tongues slashing and spearing, breath tangling in ragged gasps, huffing and groaning into each other’s trembling mouths as we sink and rise in perfect rhythm.
I cling to him, only my hips, thighs, and ass moving as I ride him through my orgasm.
He groans, grunts, his movements growing staccato, losing his so-far flawless rhythm.
My own climax fades, but another is hard on its heels; I peer down at him and see the tight, contorted expression on his face, recognize instinctively the rictus of intensity, the contortion of concentration as he holds himself back.
Oh, no.
Oh no, no, no. That won’t do at all.
I lean hard against him, pushing on his chest, and he falls backward. Pulling out of me briefly, he shifts further onto the bed, and then I move up astride him again. He moves, lifting up, seeking to change to a different position, but I push him back down.
