Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

I slide down his solid chest, running my hands all over him, his skin like silk over steel. With a whimper against his lips, I squirm along his body, trying to meld us together, rubbing and grinding.

His erection prods against my aching center, his fingers digging into my backside. I could slam myself onto him and bounce on his cock while he’s standing. I’ve never done it like that, but he’s strong enough to support us.

With my legs encircling his waist and an arm locked around his neck, I reach between us and grip him.

“Greedy.” He groans and knocks my hand away. “Impatient.”

“Hungry.” I rock against him, clinging to his strength. “Just body slam me.”

“You want me to just shove it in, huh?” He grins.

“Whatever you have to do.” I kiss him, starving and frantic. “Put me out of my misery.”

“I want to hear you scream.”

“Make me.” I bite his lips.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Now you’re just being cocky.”

“I’m not gentle.”

“Stop talking and put it in me.”

He drops to his knees in the grass and holds my legs around him so that I straddle his lap.

Framing my face in his hands, he rests his brow against mine. “Maybe.”

The illusion crashes away, and reality seeps in. This is real. Him, me, and the final chance to say stop. He’s giving me that, waiting on my reaction with labored breaths.

“No maybes.” I clutch his face, mirroring his hands. “I want you.”

He pulls me tight to his chest and kisses me until I see stars. Then he leans back and grips my hips. “Hold on.”

My fingers tremble as I grasp the broad shoulders of his heavily built body. Muscle sits upon muscle, forming stacks down his torso. I clench my legs around his narrow waist, my gaze imprisoned by the golden glow of his.

He wraps a hand around his cock, and that’s when I feel it. The tremors skating along his arm. The shaking in his thighs beneath mine. The quiver in the breaths against my neck.

“Let go,” I whisper.

His mouth parts. The fingers on my hip constrict. Then he thrusts, impaling me in one long, hard, brutal stroke.

We cry out together, losing eye contact for a stunned moment as we adjust and feel. The tip of him presses against the deepest part of me, his girth stretching neglected muscle and tissue.

When our gazes reconnect, he gathers me closer, making tight rocking stabs inside me, grinding without pulling out.

“You’re fucking tight, Maybe.” He presses a hand against my tailbone, the other twisting in my hair. “Am I hurting you?”

“A good hurt.” The overwhelming fullness and pressure urges me to push down on him, seeking freedom from this undeniable need.

“How long has it been?”

“Since I had sex? Almost a year.” I touch my lips to his. “Since it felt this right? Never.”

That’s all it takes. He lifts me and slams me back down on his cock. Over and over, he drives my body onto his, using my pussy like a fist to stroke himself off.

All I can do is hold on, shredding my vocal chords as I scream. I scream his name. I scream for a god. Maybe they’re one and the same.

He looks like a warrior god. He fucks like a sex god. I’ll happily worship him, and I do—with my mouth on his, my hands on his body, and my pussy squeezing him toward release.

He pounds into me, spreading my legs wider and tormenting my clit with talented fingers. His lips only leave mine to ravish my breasts, scattering brilliant sparks of need across my skin.

Then he lowers me to my back and fucks me into the ground. With my knee bent around his hip, he hammers relentlessly, grinding and plunging. His throaty groans infuse his kisses, his body a piston of flexing muscle and endless power as he thrusts into a frantic rhythm, hands on my ass, bruising and scratching.

He’s a vicious storm—beautiful, violent, and uncontrollable. Crashing into me, he grunts and digs as if forcing all of him into all of me. This isn’t sex. It’s something more. Something I’ve never experienced or even fantasized about.

It’s cruelty in its most primitive form, love in its deepest, most passionate state. It’s animalistic mating, unbound and stripped bare, a connection that defies civility.

The bite of his teeth no longer hurts. The merciless press of his fingers isn’t painful. His thrusts only scratch the surface of what he’s unleashed in me. I want every brutal desire in his body. More pain. More pleasure. More him.

He fucks me into the night, thrusting so roughly and savagely the slam of his hips edges us through the grass. Pebbles scrape my back. Mud smears my skin. My lips throb from kissing. The heat from his body cooks me from the inside out, and still, we fight to prolong this.