Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

It’s dirty and hot, and it’s exactly what I need right now after fifteen years of wanting this man. I don’t want a bed, or flower petals, or sweet, whispered words. After years of pining and needing, I want him to fuck me like he can’t take one more second of not being inside me. After so many years of being confused when it comes to Palmer, the need I have for him is all-consuming, and slow and sweet is not an option anymore. Maybe fifteen years ago it was, but not now. Not with the history between us and years of foreplay. I want to go faster. I need to go faster to fill this ache inside me he’s been building since the day I met him.

Lightning flashes outside and lights up the dim room from the one small window a few feet away from where Palmer has my body pinned to the wall, thunder crashing immediately after, and he moves his hand from my thigh to desperately grip one of my ass cheeks in his big palm, jerking the lower half of my body harder against him. I moan into Palmer’s mouth and around his tongue, clawing frantically at his shoulders and the wet T-shirt molded to his back, my thighs tightening around his waist, needing him closer, harder, rougher. I’ve waited too long and fantasized too much about this moment for him to take his time. Going by how quickly he got us into this building and how goddamn hard he is rubbing himself between my legs, I know we’re finally on the same page.

Palmer has one hand pressed to the front of my throat, feeling the frantic beat of my pulse under his thumb, his other hand still squeezing into my ass, digging his fingers into the skin to pull my hips roughly against him. He rubs my aching pussy against him harder, his tongue plunging deeper, swirling faster, his kiss bruising my lips and setting me on fire as the storm rages outside and the rain beats against the window.

Not one word has been spoken between us since he cut off my tirade out in the rain. We’re just a frantic mess of desperate kisses, slamming into walls, knocking over shovels and rakes that were propped up next to us, hands clawing at skin, tugging closer, feeling, touching, grabbing roughly as Palmer keeps me pinned against the wall… memorizing the feel of every part of each other we’ve never dared touch before. I hold his face in my hands. I run my fingers through his wet hair, my palms over his wet T-shirt covering his chest and down the thick, tensed muscles of his arms, everywhere I can reach as Palmer drives me closer and closer to an orgasm with our clothes still on.

With his hips anchoring me against the wall and his mouth never leaving mine, Palmer’s big, rough hand squeezes and kneads my ass then quickly skims up the side of my body to graze over my collarbone again before moving both hands down to my chest. Over my wet tank top, he cups and squeezes my breasts, flicking his thumb over my nipples as he moves, his hands never staying in one place long enough, like he can’t touch every inch of me fast enough while we kiss and dry-hump against the shed wall. I feel shattered and put back together again with each swipe of his tongue through my mouth and each skim of his hands across my body.

The rain continues to beat against the roof of the small building, flashes of lightning brightening up the room every so often as every fantasy I’ve ever had about this man comes to life right before my eyes and right between my legs.

I’m dying. I’m alive. I don’t know where he begins and I end, and combined with the stuffy humidity in this small shack and Palmer’s mouth fused to mine as his cock rubs against the lace of my wet thong faster and harder, creating a friction that is hurtling me quickly to an orgasm, I feel like I can’t take enough air into my lungs. I suck in a gasping breath when he tears his mouth from mine.

I make quick work of the momentary loss of his lips to grab the wet material of his T-shirt, yanking it up and over his head, tossing it to the side right as Palmer’s hands grab the straps of my tank top and rip them down my arms until the wet cotton is pooling around my waist with my skirt.

“Goddamn angel I want to defile,” he whispers, skimming his palm down the center of my chest, between my cleavage the white lace push-up bra provides, and down over my stomach that quickly dips with each panting breath I take.