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I groan at the sensation.
It’s been so long since anyone else’s fingers have been there…
He pulls it out, runs it along my sex, does a small circular motion against my clit, and then goes back in.
My hips buck in response, and my good hand pulls at my tank top.
I can’t stand it anymore. “Fuck me,” I moan.
No foreplay. Not this time.
I just need…
He doesn’t argue and grabs my hips. Guides himself into my opening.
A small gasp releases as he pushes all the way to the hilt.
His head drops, jaw clenching and swallowing hard as he feels the way I give and spasm around him. He has to center himself if he’s going to last long.
The thought drives me crazy. It feels so good he can’t possibly last, and I want to move my hips to feel the way he stretches me, but I wait until he’s gathered.
When he locks eyes with me again, he’s steeled. I move my hips, but he pulls out. Thrusts back in.
“Jake,” I curse.
He smiles.
One of his hands is anchored on the fiberglass hood, the other lifts my shirt higher to expose my bra. His fingers find their way underneath and clutch my right breast, his thumb sweeping over my hardened nipple.
He pulls out again.
Back in.
He establishes a rhythm. His grip on my breast tightens.
“Christ, you feel good,” he grits through his teeth, and his dick grows harder.
He goes faster.
I clutch onto his bicep as he leans down and rocks us against his car.
The friction of him against that tiny bundle of nerves, the rapid thrusts, make my sex clench around him as I feel an orgasm build, and my abs tighten.
No…
Too soon.
“Wait…” I manage. “Easy. I’m going to…” I can’t get it out.
But he doesn’t ease. The look on my face, the pleading desperation for me to savor more of this, of him, before the orgasm rips through me, is only fueling his fire.
A sly grin cuts across his face, and he goes faster.
I can’t contain it.
It rips through me, violently and unrelenting, and I throw my head back and call his name into the afternoon air.
His rhythm slows, but he still goes deep. Savors how my sex spasms around him and somehow manages to not orgasm with me.
When I come back down, I look to him with a mixture of awe and irritation. But I can’t truly be mad.
Not with the way he’s still looking at me.
He then kicks his boots and jeans off. Gathers me, open and languid, into his arms and heads for the barn. “Where are we going?” I rasp.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
