Page 34 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
“No,” I whisper, straddling him, lifting up. “Let me.”
“Let you what?” he grunts.
I slide him into me, and now, accustomed to him, loosened by orgasm, still racked with the shivering pressure of another waiting to be drawn out of me, I take him fully into me in a single smooth glide. “Let me take you there.”
He sinks down, relaxing. His eyes soak up my whole body, roaming my face, my loose, wild, ink-black hair, my breasts, my hips, then focuses on where we’re joined, watching as I lift up, watching himself sink into me as I lower myself onto him. His hands rest on my hips, and I lift up on my knees. I cup my breasts, lift them, and let them bounce as I fall onto him. I feel him throb inside me.
“Oh god, Laurel.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, his hands tightening on my hips. “God, yes. So good.”
I rise, fall, rise…fall—a slow stutter at the end of the rhythm. It’s all me—he’s still, so far, holding himself taut and tense, his eyes on my body as I move on him.
“God, Laurel.” His voice is ragged with need.
I see the need in him; I see it in every taut, tense line of his body. “What, Ryder? Tell me. What do you need?”
His hands claw into the generous swell of my ass and he pulls me down onto him. “You said to let you, but…I—I can’t.”
“Are you close?” I murmur, keeping the rhythm, the quick-quick-slow pattern.
He nods. “Yeah—god, god you feel so good, Laurel.”
“How close?”
He groans, his hands beginning to control my movements, lifting me up and yanking me down. “So fucking close.”
I lean forward; bracing my hands on his chest, I curl my legs beneath me, resting my ankles on his shins so all my weight is on him, on the place where we are joined.
“Don’t move, Ryder,” I whisper. “Let me take you there.”
He groans in something like agony. “I—fuck, I can’t. I need to—”
I lower my torso against his, draping my breasts on his chest, I feel him gliding against me, hitting me just right, and the climax waiting pent up deep inside starts to rise, and my hands clench into the mattress above his head—I’m writhing on top of him, now, my whole body stretching and contracting and thrashing harder and faster and harder and faster.
“Fuck, Laurel—Fuck, oh god—fuck, you feel so perfect, so hot, so tight, so wet.” His voice is breathless, guttural, a ragged whisper. “I have to move. I can’t hold still anymore.”
I bite his lip, bury my face in his neck. “Show me,” I whisper. “Show me.”
He snarls like a predator, one big, strong hand spearing into my hair and palming my cheek, ear, and jaw all at once—his other arm wraps like an iron bar around my ass, his hand seizing me with wild need. And just like that, I realized—
I never had control.
He was giving it to me.
And now, he takes it back.
Beneath me, he shows me how completely I am his. He kisses me, but it’s no longer just a kiss, no longer just an expression of desire and affection—it’s a claiming. His tongue spears into my mouth, searching my mouth and tongue and lips. His hips slam up into mine, driving himself into me, my ass slapping against his thighs. I cry out, the sudden ferocity of his powerful thrust sending me spiraling into a mad helter-skelter rush of orgasm—not a gradual falling over the edge or rising into it, but just there, immediate and nova-hot. I want to move, and my hips flex and push, but his arm keeps me in place and refuses to allow me the slightest amount of movement. He holds me against him and drives into me, snarling in my ear, thrusting hard and growling gutturally, wordless and crazed.
“Ryder—” I gasp.
He won’t let me speak, either. His kiss demands I breathe only him, take only his tongue, swallow his grunts and devour his snarls and taste the furious passion of his lips. The thrusting of his hips demands I accept him, demands that I writhe with him, that I whimper against his kiss and roll my hips and try to find his rhythm.
His hand slides through my hair and cups the back of my head and crushes our lips together, but it’s not a kiss or anything like it, just our mouths fused and our mutual moans merging and tangling. My breath comes in ragged gasps between torn whimpers and shrill shrieks of agonized ecstasy—the kind of pleasure that is so furious and wild and deep and powerful that it almost hurts. I feel myself clenching around him, squeezing him so tightly every vein ripples through my spasming channel, so I feel every inch of him as he drives in with a resounding clap of flesh, the slaps growing faster and our cries and grunts and curses and whimpers and snarls louder and faster.
