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“Oh, Patriot, please….” She had no idea what she was asking for, only that he was the only one who could give it to her.
“I’ll give you what you need, baby.” He thrust a second finger into her, curving the digits to scrape along her inner wall, hitting her just right. She cried out at the feeling of being full—but she wasn’t full enough.
“Shh, Cilla, love, I know what you need,” he rumbled, licked her slit, then pulled his fingers from her pussy. Rising to his knees, he sucked the fingers into his mouth, closed his eyes as if in ecstasy, and groaned. “So fucking delicious. I could eat you all fucking day…but my cock is weeping for you.”
Dropping his hands to his shirt, he pulled it over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Immediately, Cilla’s gaze was caught on the glinting metal in Patriot’s nipple. She moaned, why the hell was that so hot? With his shirt gone, he focused on unbuckling his belt, unbutton and unzipping his jeans, then divesting himself of his pants and his boxer briefs all at once. It was tricky because he’d forgotten to take off his boots, but once he was standing before her, in all his naked glory, she found she was short of breath.
“Look your fill, because it’s all yours…just like all of you belongs to me,” he growled, kneeling on the bed, then crawling until he hovered over her.
She looked up at him, her body hot and shaking with need, and nearly came at the look on his face. His cheeks flushed and wet with her juices, his eyes wild, his long, dark hair loose around his head, framing a face straight out of her darkest fantasies. She didn’t have time nor energy to be embarrassed about her body now, about how she was all squishy soft to his hard edges.
Notching his body between her spread thighs, he planted a fist beside her head, then placed one hand on her cheek and peered down into her eyes.
“I feel like I’ve been waiting forever for you, for this moment with you. And I promise, this means everything to me, Cilla. You mean everything to me, so I’m taking what’s mine. You’re mine, Cilla,” he moaned as the head of his cock pressed against her entrance.
…this means everything to me….
Overcome, she could only reply, “Yours.”
In one hard thrust, he filled her. She cried out at the intrusion, the immediate, breathtaking fullness.
“Aw, fuck, you feel so fucking good. Your pussy is swallowing my cock so good, baby,” he murmured against her mouth, then took her lips with his. He stole her breath, devouring her moans and mewls as he began to move. Slowly, as if trying to be gentle with her, he pulled out to almost the tip, then drove in hard and deep. He grunted at the force of bottoming out inside her. He began thrusting, his balls slapping against her ass, the sounds of sex filled the air as she stared up into his eyes, unable to tear her gaze away. Never in her life had she felt such agonizing bliss, like she couldn’t fit inside her own skin. As he pounded into her, a look of pleasure came over his face, and he drove into her faster, harder, shoving his fat cock deeper into her as she dug her nails into his back. He dropped his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth, and she screamed once again—too much, too good, too everything.
She thrust her own hips up to meet his downstroke, up and down, faster and faster until they were panting together.
“Patriot, please—I’m so close!” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut as tears of desperate need filled her eyes.
“Cilla!” His thrusting sped up, fucking into her like he needed to bury himself deep. Lights and fire exploded in her as pleasure enveloped her. She wailed, her body convulsing as Patriot lost control as her pussy tightened around him. “Oh, fuck, fuck—Cilla!” He thrust three more times, before he thrust deep and held himself there, groaning from the depths of his chest as the threw his head back. His throat was corded with his exertion—a man, in the throes of passion, feeling every ounce of pleasure she gave him. It was heady, the knowledge that she’d brought a man such pleasure. She could feel his seed splashing against the walls of her pussy, which made her pussy pulse with aftershocks.
Patriot grunted, thrust once more, then collapsed on top of her, his weight welcome and pleasing.
For the first time in her life, Cilla felt truly beautiful.
TEN
“Patriot…” she murmured against his chest, her fingers continuing to trace the tattoo of the American flag etched into the golden flesh of his right pec. The tattoo of an eagle, wings extended, talons spread, was inked into his left pec, right where his heart was beating. She knew from the times she’d seen him shirtless at club barbecues that his Unchained MC club tat—a circle of chains, with a snapped middle link surrounding a wickedly grinning skull—was pride of place in the center of his well-muscled back. And then there were the tattoo sleeves running down, shoulder to wrist, on each arm. Some of the tattoos were just tribal designs, beautifully woven with the typical biker images of a naked pin up, flaming motorcycles, tombstones, crosses, and a woman’s name. Cilla knew from their conversations while she was working at the diner that the name “Helen” was meant to commemorate his mother, who died of lung cancer three years ago. He said they hadn’t been close, but she was still his mom, and he’d still loved her and wanted to remember her. He’d wanted to have that piece of her, so he could tell his future children about her.
Cilla had swooned so hard, she’d needed a change of panties.
It was in that moment, hearing those words from such a rugged, hard-edged man, that she’d fallen completely in love with Patriot. That was only four months ago, and before that moment, she’d already had a seriously ridiculous crush on him. That crush crashed into unrequited love in a single conversation.
And now she was lying in his arms, naked, after he’d wrecked her body—and she wasn’t sure what to do. What was the protocol for having sex with the man you love, but who doesn’t love you back? What were the rules for bikers who sexed up inexperienced women?
What was a warm, sated euphoria quickly turned into a cold, coiling anxiety.
God…she was going to do it—she was going to ask, because not knowing was making her sick.
Clearing her throat, she started again, “Patriot?”
“Hmm,” he responded, the deep sound vibrating through his chest. Because he was laying on his back, head against her pillow, his eyes closed, she could look her fill of his massive, muscular body. Every inch of him was masculine perfection—rock hard muscles, a golden expanse of hot, smooth flesh—the badass biker manscaped!—deeply grooved lines delineating each bulge in his sexy as hell six pack and that mind-boggling V. And don’t get her started on his nipple piercing—a bar bell through his left nipple, just begging for her to lick it. Again.
And holy fucking shit—pardon her French—his cock was a work of art. In the heat of the moment, with all the quick clothing removal and hurried movements, she hadn’t gotten a chance to look at his cock. And now, his spectacular body bare, she ravished him with her eyes like a perv.
His cock was long, even when soft, and it was thick, and smooth. There was a large, thick vein that traversed the length of him from just beneath the head to the base, disappearing into his scrotum. He was uncircumcised, which she considered weird, since she thought most men were circumcised. Obviously, with her one, single previous sexual encounter, she was not the Encyclopedia Britannica of men’s genitals.
“Cilla?” Patriot’s concerned voice jerked her from her dirty thoughts.
God! Stop being so awkward!
