Coaxing the Roughneck

“Did someone send you to seduce me out of here? Have they already sold the rig and the new owners want it empty?” I swallow the sharp stick in my throat. “Are they going to demolish it and put a new one in its place?”

“I don’t know what they’ll do once I sell the rig,” she says in a half-murmur. “But I can’t sell it while you’re still here.”

“You own the rig now?” Against my better judgment, I approach her in the near-darkness, my booted footsteps heavy on the metal grated floor. As I get closer, I can see her resemblance to Mack, the former rig manager and owner. She’s decidedly feminine and delicate, but the stubborn nose and chin say it all. “You’re Mack’s daughter.”

“Guilty,” she says, fidgeting. “I inherited this hunk of metal. Only found out last night.” Her gaze slips to the front of my jeans where there’s not only a massive wet spot, but the ridge of my new erection pulses steadily. She blinks several times, fingers wringing in her lap. Even in the darkness, I can see her cheeks turn pinker, innocence surrounding her like an aura. Yeah, she must be really desperate to offer to fuck me, because I’m all but certain she’s never had a man’s cock between her thighs. Definitely never one this big. “Why don’t you want to leave, Butch? Don’t you want to meet people or feel the sunshine on your skin…”

“No.”

She shakes her head slowly, looking up at me with a wrinkled brow. Really looking, as if she’s genuinely curious. “Why not?”

Someone is banging a gong in my chest. Hard. “People aren’t loyal. They are selfish deserters. And I got enough sunshine in the desert to last me six lifetimes.”

“In the desert. You were in the service?”

“A Marine. Yeah.”

We stare at each other for several seconds. When she stands up, I don’t expect it. Not until I see that the scar on my flank has caught her attention. She circles around back of me and gasps, obviously having found the crisscrossing knife wounds, my only physical souvenir from the war. The rest of them are mental. Gripping and debilitating and hostile.

“What happened to you, Butch?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I rasp, shouts for mercy filling my head.

Cindy appears in front of me once again, a line of sympathy marring her forehead now and making my throat feel tight. Our height difference is even more obvious now that she’s standing up. The top of her head barely reaches the center of my chest. She’d probably look like a doll in my arms. I want to pick her up and test that theory so badly, but I wouldn’t be able to stop there. I’d rub her all over me. I’d scrub her up and down my hard dick like clothes on a washboard. And I’d humiliate myself again.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed…” She swallows hard. “I’m sure you haven’t seen a woman in a really long time.”

“Never…never one that looks or sounds or smells like you,” I heave, my shaft squeezing. Oh fuck. I’m clenching from teeth to asshole to keep from coming again. The softness of her skin, the gentle purr of her voice, the plumpness of her lips. Every sweet inch of her is an assault on my senses. Goddamn, I just want to ram my cock up between her thighs and have her like it. Have her enjoy it. I know that’s impossible, but I can’t help torturing myself. “Have you been fucked before, Cindy?”

She takes a breath, closes her eyes. “No.”

A desperate groan escapes me. I almost double over at the way my balls cinch up, wanting to be the lucky man to flood her. “I wish it could be me. Your first.”

“That’s exactly what I offered,” she says quietly, visibly confused. “Remember?”

My laughter is rife with pain. “You’d wish me dead after one thrust. Your nails would open up every single wound on my back trying to get me to stop.” When she only continues to stare at me in confusion, I sigh and unzip my jeans, letting my freakishly huge dick spring out into the open.

She jerks back, her foot catching on the bottom step.

She’s going to fall. Hit her little head.

No.

With a distressed sound, I lurch forward and catch her in my arms before any delicate part of her can connect with hard metal. In the process, my bare shaft has wedged itself between her belly and my lap. My head goes up in flames when I realize her pussy is only two layers of fabric away. Her jean shorts and panties.

That’s if she’s wearing panties.

Jesus. Jesus.

“Don’t move,” I grit out.

To my utter shock, her eyelids flutter. Her nipples harden, too, spearing me in the chest. Why isn’t she terrified? Why isn’t she screaming at me to let her go?