Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)
“If that’s the case,” I tell him, walking over to the couch, spreading my legs a bit wider than shoulder width, and turning my body towards the couch but my head towards him, “Don’t take it easy.”
“My God,” he hisses, walking up behind me. The lines of his abdomen ripple with every movement. The scars dotting his arms and chest from years of manual labor just turn me on more. “You don’t want it easy, right?”
“Just fuck me,” I beg, my ass popped in the air. “Get inside me and make me come all over you.”
He swats my backside, the sound ricocheting through the room. I yelp, only because I’m surprised because the sting, a sweet, sinful kiss, only makes me drip faster down my own legs.
One hand digs into my hip, the other presses on the back of my head. “Head down, sweetheart.”
I fold my torso down so I’m resting on my forearms, feeling the cool air hit my pussy. The tip of his cock lines up, only barely parting the lips of my vagina. I’m stretched around him, my body pulsing, trying to drag him in farther. I try to push back but it’s met with another swat.
“Will you please fuc—” The rest comes out in a gush as he sinks inside my body in one long, heavy thrust. He hits the back, an explosion of colors lighting up my vision. A hand claws into my ass cheek before moving over and holding my other hip.
He sinks into me again. And again. And a third time, each movement nailing the spot on the back wall of my pussy.
“You’re squeezing the fuck out of me,” he grits. “Are you doing that on purpose?”
“No,” I gasp, the force of him behind me all but taking my breath away. “Keep moving.”
“Damn you.”
Our skin slips by the other, our bodies slapping as he builds me up like an expert craftsman. My arms begin to go numb, my legs threatening to give out, as I fall forward into the cushions and use them to help keep me propped.
I know it’s going to end soon; I can’t continue much longer. Every part of me is worked into a luxurious dance of hums and screams as I rise to the point of no return.
“I have to stop,” he groans, “or come. What will it be?”
“Keep. Going,” I pant, my feet almost coming off the floor. “Right there, Walker. Right there!” I scream into the cushions as a shot of energy tries to shoot through the top of my head. My legs shake just like they describe in raunchy rap songs, pulsing to a tune I can’t hear over the orgasm ripping through every cell of my body.
I hear him moaning behind me as he finds his own relief. Somewhere I register the burn of his hands in my hips. There’s a part of me that picks up the sweat dripping down our bodies and the scent of sex that permeates the air.
He thrusts one final time before slowly removing his cock. I fall into the couch in one very un-ladylike fashion, unable to keep my eyes open.
“Hey,” he whispers. His hand brushes a strand of damp hair out of my face. When I open my eyes, I see him kneeling beside me. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” I ask, my throat burning. “I look awful, huh?”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. I rest my head against his, relishing in the safety of being in his arms.
“You look prettier than I’ve ever seen you,” he says. “Can I put you in the bath?”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him sleepily.
“I know. But I’d like to do it.”
“On one condition.”
He chuckles, standing back up. “Of course there’s a condition.”
“You have to take one with me.”
I wait for his answer, but it doesn’t come right away. Finally, I twist my head to see him. His face is somber.
“Well?” I ask.
He still doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends down and lifts me up, cradling me in his arms. “Let’s go, Slugger.”
“FUCK.”
The sound of a male voice next to me as I switch from dreaming to awake is startling. Convinced I’m ready to be murdered, I jump.
“Good morning.” His voice is rougher than usual, indicative of the long night we spent having sex, laughing, talking, eating, and repeating all of it until our eyes got so sleepy we fell asleep in each other’s arms as the sun began to rise.
He kept telling me he wouldn’t stay, that he’d have to go at some point, but we’d get distracted by a tale of our youth or how many pieces of heat-up bacon we could eat or how soft our lips are against different parts of our bodies.
It was the best night of my life.
Walker is lying on my left, between me and the nightstand, his phone held up in the air over his head. He’s not looking at the screen, though. He’s looking at me.