Page 29 of Burn

My pussy clamped onto him, wetting his cock. I caught every sleek lunge of that erection and gave in kind, whipping my hips. We collided, our drenched bodies beating out a furious rhythm.

Poet grabbed my other thigh, hoisted it over his waist, and flung his cock deeper, harder, quicker. My cries rang out in tempo. I felt myself leaking, clenching wetly around the jester, my arousal soaking his erection.

My open mouth landed against his. Our breaths crashed together, the same way our bodies did. The rain made everything slippery, enhancing the sensations, my breasts jostling against his pectorals, my legs astride his waist.

The pressure crested. My walls fluttered, small foreshocks rippling through my folds. Yet I buried my teeth into my lower lip, stifling the orgasm because there was more to be had. So much more.

On the verge of pleading, I seized Poet’s buttocks and squirmed. He read my hectic movements and growled. Still primed inside my pussy, he hefted me off the slat railing, strapped me around him, and stalked to a crescent-shaped bench embedded into the bridge at the halfway point. The bank rested under the only covered section of the platform, the crescent jutting farther over the abyss, with a gabled ceiling bolstered by posts and strewn in leaves.

The jester dropped onto the cushioned seat, where he carefully and agilely twisted me to face away from him, all without pulling his cock from my body. I yelped in shock, stunned by the movement and the wondrous sensations it produced.

Sheets of rain spilled over the awning, creating a wall of water around us. The tip of a thick oak branch extended into the enclosure and weaved along the ceiling. Burgundy leaves dangled like ornaments and trembled from their stems.

Straddling Poet’s lap, I sat with my back to his damp chest, both of us dripping all over each other. My buttocks curved into his pelvis, with my limbs sprawled on either side. Yet another newfound position.

Excitement powered through me. My pulse skipped as he captured my hips and jerked me into him. His lips skated over my earlobe, that decadent voice drizzling like black silk, the deep and resonant sound scorching my veins. “Take what’s yours and fuck it.”

My pussy reacted. The intimate flesh thrummed, pouring from the center of my body and coating his cock. Poet purred, feeling what his words did to me.

I followed that stimulation, gripped his thighs, and ground my hips on his lap. Poet hissed, the noise slicing through the air. It affected me like an intoxicant, emboldening me to row my hips wider—and I keened from how glorious this angle felt, how deeply he breached me. With my mouth hanging open, I coiled into him and bounded my pussy over his cock, my backside stroking his abdomen.

Poet’s groans sizzled down my vertebrae. His fingernails dug into my hips, encouraging me to scoot back and forth quicker. Seasons, I felt the bulbous head of his erection hitting an exceptional spot.

I cried out, craned my head into his shoulder, and reached backward to grasp his nape. Using his body for stability, I raised myself up and sank on his upright cock in rapid succession. Poet adapted to the rhythm and launched his waist upward, striking me deeper, harder.

Everything slickened. Everywhere hurt in the most wonderful way, so close yet so far out of reach. Every time my body neared a crescendo, Poet switched tempo or assaulted a different notch inside me, prolonging the bliss.

How could torture be this remarkable? How could it ever feel this potent?

Always, he succeeded in this. Never had he failed to startle me.

The jester worked his cock into my cunt, every lash sinuous. In haste, I met his thrusts, bobbing my pussy, my walls spreading around the crown and driving down to the base.

Poet thickened even farther, his girth so broad it expanded my folds and pumped more fluid from my core. Sparks danced across my skin as I galloped into Poet, riding his cock. The cleft of my thighs parted for him, my limbs sprawled wider with each rough slam of his backside, and my tight nipples pitted into the air.

Poet released my hips and leaned back on his palms, allowing me to take control. I bounded forward and backward, dashing my hips on top of him, flaying his cock until his moans grew hoarse.

He took what I gave, letting himself be dominated. I cherished what he offered, stoking the flames. My lips trembled, and I moved with urgency, pursuing his pleasure, frantic to draw every possible sound from us both. And yet the moans escalated and tangled until I couldn’t tell his voice from my own.

As I thrashed my waist, Poet palmed my breasts and pinched my nipples. My being fractured. The volume of my cries escalated, as did my speed.

“Sublime,” he crooned into my neck. “Magnificent.”

“Painful,” I sobbed into the rain. “Unbearable.”

“Wrong.” Briefly, he snatched my earlobe between his teeth. “You can bear anything, my thorn.”

“Not without you.”

That response cracked me in half—heartsick and joyous. Poet’s frame hitched, as if my response had struck him like a knife. Uttering a profanity, he kicked his waist into my ass, his cock pistoning fast. The jester put his entire weight into the motions, hauling his cock into me until oxygen fled my lungs.

“Nor without you,” he echoed, his tone reverent, fierce, and haunted. “Never without you.”

I hollered into the storm. “Poet!”

“Briar,” he choked out.

Because always, it came back to that. No matter what was said or felt, it was him and me. It was our names on each other’s lips, teetering there like a plea.

---