Page 29 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
And then James’s hands leave my core and latch onto my breast and the back of my neck, and his hips thrust spasmodically, uncontrollably. He grunts, and then the grunt turns into a long, drawn-out groan. He arches forward over me, shoulders hunched and drawn in, head hanging. His eyes are closed. His breath comes in short sharp gasps, and he groans again as his hips begin undulating, grinding his cock through my hands. He’s close.
I want it.
I want his pleasure. His release.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” The first words he’s spoken in several minutes.
I plunge my fists down around him, slick them back up. He’s dry—I release him with one hand and spit into my palm, smear my saliva around the head of his cock, and then slide my other fist around it, spreading the lubrication around him, and his groan now is hoarse and low and broken.
He thrusts helplessly.
I pull him closer to me, breathe in his ear, whisper his name, whisper encouragement to him, accepting his orgasm and relishing the vulnerability in this moment: “James, yes—come for me, James. Let me feel you come, James—yes, yes, yes.” I’m whispering this in his ear, so softly and quietly I can barely hear myself over his nonstop grunts as he reaches climax.
I stroke him quickly, one fist above the other, and he’s so huge that with both fists plunged down around his base, there’s still at least a couple of inches of his beautiful organ sprouting out the top of my upper fist. I watch, rapt, as he tenses, goes utterly taut, jaw clenched around a curse:
“Fuck—f-f-fuuuuuck—”
He comes.
Beautifully, raggedly, James orgasms. His seed spurts in a thick white stripe out of him and over my belly in a hot thick pool, and I stroke and grind and twist and plunge, and he groans again, comes more, adding to the pool of cum on my belly.
He’s heaving breathlessly, and he thrusts helplessly into my fists, spurting another, smaller squirt onto me. So…much…cum.
God, it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. I’ve not felt this way—needed, wanted, desired—in so, so long. I’ve forgotten how it feels.
I’m still slowly stroking his length, and he jerks, judders, and a bead of cum dribbles down one side, and he groans long and loud.
“Ohhhh fuck. Fuck.” He growls in his chest. “Holy shit, Renée.”
Chapter 6
I freeze.
He freezes.
His eyes fly open and meet mine. “Nova—Nova.” His eyes are tortured, sorrowful, conflicted, pained. “Nova, fuck—I—I’m…” He backs away, stumbling as his jeans tangle around his knees. He jerks them up. “Goddammit—Nova, I’m sorry.”
I can’t speak.
It hurts. God, it hurts.
Knowing how easily such things can happen, especially to those like James and me—well, that doesn’t help. It still hurts to hear another woman’s name fall from his lips.
I have his cum cooling in a sticky pool on my belly.
I feel tears welling, and I blink them away, but I’m too late, and not strong enough to suck them back in. Not now, not weak from orgasm, not weak from having just felt so…so wanted.
I know, intellectually, that until the ultimate moment of release, he was fully present with me and aware he was with me.
I know this.
But he said her name.
“Nova—”
I swallow hard, shake my head. “It’s fine, James.”
He leans past me to grab the roll of paper towel off the holder, rips a handful of sheets free, and cleans me up in a few quick, economical wipes, folding the wad and wiping until I’m clean.
He throws the paper towel away and reaches for me, pulls me off the counter and sets me on my feet. His hands are so strong—he’s so strong. I shiver at his touch.
I crouch and snag my clothing. “I…um. I’m gonna go get…get dressed.”
I turn away and head for my bedroom, barely keeping it together. I make it to my bed, toss my clothing back onto the floor and collapse onto my bed, letting out the sobs.
How anyone his size, weighing as much as he does in solid muscle, can move so silently, I don’t even know. I don’t hear a thing, so I’m startled when I feel my bed dip, and then a blanket covers me.
I don’t look.
I don’t want him to see me crying, which is stupid, but there it is.
“Nova, I’m sorry.” His voice is so quiet, deep and gruff and sad. “I don’t know what else to say.”
I roll to my side and bring the blanket up to my chin, peering at James through tear-blurred eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“You want me to leave?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“I’m here because I had to…say I’m sorry. You have to know I knew—the whole time, I knew I was with you. I wanted to be here with you.” He rubs the back of his neck—he’s still shirtless, his heavy muscles flexing and shifting as he moves. “I just…in that moment, I got…I want to say confused, but that’s not right. I don’t know how to put it.”
