Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

His fingers slip between my legs, and he groans. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

I try to claw my way out from beneath him, panting from exertion and growing wetter by the second. He stays with me, crawling and grunting with a fist around his cock.

Every movement is an effort to bury himself inside me. He wrestles me, grabs at me, and I fight back, feeding off his urgency and squirming away.

He grips my legs and tries to climb onto my back, and I twist, gasping and panting. The thrust and miss of his hips makes him hotter and harder, and his groans darken into primal growls.

I love when he reaches this level of need, when he completely loses himself in the drive to plunder, claim, and fuck.

He finally pins me on my stomach, with his chest against my back, trapping me in the inescapable cage of his body. His knees roughly force my legs apart, and he rams into me with so much force it knocks the wind from my lungs.

“Christ, Maybe. Fuck!” With a grunt of relief, he gathers me close, imprisoning me with a hand against my throat and an arm around my stomach. “Always so wet and tight. So fucking perfect.”

Then he goes wild, plunging and hammering with the strength and endurance of a stallion.

The headboard slams against the wall. The bed frame screeches. The sheets twist and unravel in my clawing hands. He groans at my ear, and I scream into the mattress.

He has the stamina to fuck for hours, and tonight, he does. Possessive and untamed, he impales me. Enslaved and owned, I welcome him. When his teeth sink into my shoulder, when the pleasure strangles his breaths, when the need in his body overrides his will to keep going, he tenses, presses his face against my neck, and groans long and deep.

We erupt together, explosive, shaking, and spent.

He crashes against my side, breathless and clinging with arms and legs. I fold into his chest and rest my lips against the warm, wet seam of his. We kiss leisurely, licking and tasting, until our heartbeats return to normal.

I need another shower. And twelve hours of sleep.

“I’m going to rinse off.” I untangle our sweaty, languid limbs and leave him half-asleep on the bed.

“Hurry back,” he mumbles into the pillow. “And bring the cream.”

The cream takes the burn out of the marks on my body, but I love the tingling pain. I also love the cuddling aftercare.

I rush through the shower, pull on one of his t-shirts, and grab the tube of ointment. When I open the door to the bedroom, the distinctive scent of weed hits my nose.

Stretched out on the bed beside the open window, he lies on his back, hands folded behind his head, with a joint between his lips.

He only smokes when his aches are more than he can bear. I’m not fond of the smell, but my God, he’s sexy when he’s all sprawled out and mellow, like a lazy lion. The sheet twists around his hips, the rest of him bare and utterly at ease.

I set the cream on the nightstand and pick up his phone. Scrolling through his playlist, I select Might As Well Get Stoned by Chris Stapleton and gently sway as the song floats through the room.

“You overdid it today.” I join him on the bed, slotting my legs beneath his head so he can use my lap as a pillow. “Then you overdid it again tonight. You should’ve told me you were hurting.”

The smoldering joint protrudes from the corner of his sexy mouth. He cracks open an eye, squinting up at me through the smoke.

“Why are you so beautiful?” he mumbles, jostling the joint.

“I don’t know how to answer that.” I laugh, running my fingers through his hair. “Why are you so large?”

He glances down at his groin.

“Oh, for the love.” I pluck the spliff from his lips and replace it with a kiss, savoring the taste of smoke and rebellion on his mouth. “I was talking about your personality.”

“You think my personality is…large?”

“Uh, yeah.” I return the weed to his lips, holding it as he takes a drag. “You know what else I think?”

He exhales a thick cloud toward the window and stares up at me expectantly.

“I think three months with you isn’t enough.” The truth tumbles out, and I curse myself for speaking without thinking.

He looks at me, really looks, with golden eyes that see more than they should. His hand floats to my face, caressing a trail of wonder and warmth.

“Cache that.” He directs his gaze at the joint in my hand.

I twist to the side and put it out in the ashtray on the windowsill.

When I turn back, his arms close around me and pull me tight, chest to chest, legs entangled.

“I think a lifetime with you isn’t enough.” He rests his forehead against mine, breathing me in.