Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

He holds me up, grinding his erection against my welted flesh as I choke and laugh beneath great sheets of rain.

“Holy fuck.” I tilt my face to the sky, relishing the cool shower on my heated cheeks.

“My thoughts exactly.” He removes his hand, slowly scraping his fingers through the trimmed hair on my mound. “You can’t be real.”

“Untie me and I’ll prove I am.”

I might be the only one warring between right and wrong, but in this moment, wrong is winning. Against all reasoning, I need to see this through.

He unleashed something inside me, something demanding and overwhelming, and he’s the only one who can satisfy it.

“We need to get to shelter.” He moves to the rope and loosens the knots, peering through the drenched strands of hair dripping across his brow.

Good lord, he’s gorgeous. The surrounding darkness writhes around him, clinging to his menacing edges, making him appear bigger, badder, more threatening. He’s a shadowy, lethal pulse of energy and allure.

The instant the restraints fall away, I attack him. Arms and legs around his formidable frame, I feed on his lips with a fury.

It’s exactly what McKenna did the night I watched through the window, but this is different. He doesn’t just stand there. He rivals my frenzy and competes with my urgency, battling my teeth and fingernails with fangs and claws.

Hoisting me up his chest, he stumbles backward through the downpour and dominates the kiss with firm, aggressive lips. “There’s a barn.”

“Where?” I reach between us, tackling his belt buckle.

“Quarter mile.” He groans against my mouth, fingers digging against my backside, in my hair, tongue colliding and wrestling with mine.

I manage to release the belt, then his zipper. The denim is stiff, sopping wet, and unmanageable, but I’m too far gone to let that stop me. I wedge my fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs and slide through his patch of short hair. So close…

“If you touch my cock,” he growls, “we won’t make it to that barn.”

We’re soaked to the bone, surrounded by lightning bolts and endless grass, muffled by thunderclaps, and I don’t care about any of it.

I shove my hand in deeper and grip the thick length of him.

“Ahhhh, Maybe!” His head falls back, and he thrusts his hips, stroking himself in the clench of my fingers.

His mouth returns to mine, hungrier, harder, all control gone. The world spins and lifts, and in the next breath, I’m on my back in a bed of watery grass with a rutting, grunting pillar of muscle and testosterone between my legs.

“I need you.” He thrusts against me, grinding his zipper along my swollen flesh. “Fuck, I don’t have a condom.”

I have an IUD, but I don’t want to shout over the rain about disease and sexual histories. Instead, I push against his shoulder, rolling him to his back.

Lying beneath me, he holds an arm over his eyes and squints through the downpour. I can’t make out his expression in the dark, but I feel his need. It vibrates through him, shaking his limbs, tightening his fingers, and hijacking his breaths.

I wrangle his soaked t-shirt up and off and scoot down his body, splaying my hands across his magnificent chest. I ache to trace every indention along the cut of his abs, but I’ll do that later when I can take my time.

When I reach his jeans, I yank and wrangle and grunt until his huge, swollen cock lurches free. Sweet mother, he’s gloriously hung. The silhouette alone is intimidating as hell.

My hands go to it instinctively, fingers wrapping around the base and sliding up with ease, lubricated by the pouring rain.

His body bows and stiffens as I rub up and down his length.

“Goddamn, Maybe.” His eyes squeeze shut, and his hands dig into the grass. “Feels so fucking good.”

The intensity and the volume of the storm increases, but it’s no match for the tumultuous sight of Jarret Holsten on the cusp of climax. His hips kick and jerk. His hands claw the earth. Muscular twitches move his legs, and his boots drag through the grass, as if he’s struggling to hold still, trying to rein himself in.

Then he snaps. His fist clamps around mine, and he arches his lower body, slamming into the sheath of our hands. Three thrusts later, he roars into the rain, shaking and pumping and spurting across his abs.

It’s the most erotic sight I’ve ever witnessed.

I intended to suck him to completion but miscalculated how close he was. I lower my head anyway, attempting to catch a taste of him before the rain washes it away.

The flared head of his cock pulsates between my lips as I suck him clean. Then I move to the carved terrain of his stomach and swipe my tongue along the bumpy grooves, lapping at the salty blend of come and rainwater.