Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

Is he returning her kisses? I can’t tell. His profile’s too fuzzy through the grimy glass. I wish I could see his full expression.

I wish I knew what he tastes like.

Ugh. What the hell’s wrong with me? Yeah, he’s insanely gorgeous, and the definition in his torso looks better than any airbrushed magazine. I would have to be in a coma to be immune to all that masculine sexiness. But I learned the hard way male beauty is only skin deep.

I should go. He obviously knows this girl. I can come back later and try to talk to her.

Go.

Get your feet moving.

Step away from the window.

Rather than doing the logical thing, I linger, silently willing him to lower his jeans. I just want a glimpse. A forbidden eye full of Jarret Holsten in the buff. I bet he’s hung like a stallion.

I know it’s wrong. I’m invading his privacy, but he has it coming after being a jerk to me. I could do a lot worse than steal a peek at his package.

After a few more seconds of her groping, he grabs her shoulder-length hair and yanks her back.

My breath catches, and my skin heats. Christ, he’s rough.

Using his grip, he forces her to her knees and stares down at her. His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, and she blinks up at him, eyes heavy with hunger.

He shifts slightly, putting his back to the window and blocking my view of her and whatever he’s packing in his pants.

I clutch my throat as her hands move to the vicinity of his fly. Then his jeans slide downward, just low enough to reveal two dimples on either side of his tailbone, the top of his crack, and the rise of sculpted butt cheeks.

She inches closer, and his back muscles flex. He tosses off his hat, unveiling thick, dark hair that’s cut short enough to keep him cool in the heat, but long enough to tangle around fingers.

With her face hidden by his body, I can’t see his cock sliding into her mouth, but he’s definitely giving it to her, kicking his hips with his hands clenched on her head.

There’s an edge to the way he moves. A sense of dominance and tantalizing power. It holds me in fascination and soul-deep longing to the point where I feel envious of her. Maybe even jealous.

I crave that kind of relationship, one where I can put absolute trust in a lover to fuck me however he pleases, to hurt me with pleasure-pain and take care of me afterward.

But that kind of trust has never worked out for me. Whoever said there’s glory in love obviously doesn’t know how that fantasy ends.

Fuck ‘em and forget ‘em. Now that’s a motto that rings true, one I intend to adopt when I’m ready to move on.

Watching Jarret face fuck this girl makes me miss sex. I already missed it, but this plunges me into a whole new hell of lonesome yearning.

It takes about five minutes of plowing into her throat before he comes. His head falls back, and his hips grind erratically, ruthlessly, as he holds her face against him.

I clench my thighs together, imagining being taken that way by a man who wants me with mindless passion.

Christ, I really need to get laid.

He releases her, and she falls back on her butt, smiling. It surprises me when he pulls up his jeans and fastens them in place. Is he finished?

He slides the belt from his waistband and folds it in half while speaking to her.

Nope, not finished.

She jumps to her feet and strips her clothes, revealing caramel skin, voluptuous curves, and huge boobs. She’s pretty. Absolutely stunning. And boy, do I feel inadequate.

I’ve always wanted a body like that. Instead, I’ve been stuck with the same gangly limbs and tiny tits I’ve had since middle school.

The bag he brought from the gas station sits on the mattress. She crawls up beside it and sprawls on her back, giving me a full-on view of her Brazilian wax job.

He prowls around the bed, trailing a hand along her leg, her hip, the full curve of her breast. When he reaches the headboard, he loops the belt around her wrists and restrains her to the metal frame.

Of course, he does. Why wouldn’t he play out all my fantasies while I stand outside the window like a creepy pervert?

My ability to leave has come and gone. I’ve never experienced the kind of raw, kinky sex I know this man is capable of. Watching might be as close as I ever come to participating in something like this.

He says something to her, tweaks her nipple, and steps into the adjoined bathroom.

Minutes pass, and I grow anxious. What is he doing? Fluffing his cock? Flossing his teeth? Maybe she keeps a bag of sex toys in there, and he’s debating between a Baby Jesus butt plug or shock therapy nipple clamps?