Page 17 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

He thrusts forward.

A choked, jagged scream tears from my throat. He breaches my wetness, pushing past the tight ring of muscle, stretching my walls with ruthless precision. He doesn't bury himself in one stroke. He goes deep—inch by punishing inch—letting me feel every ridge, every vein, every centimeter of him claiming a place inside me that’s been empty for two years. The cold mountain air and the warm beeswax and his ragged breath all live in the same lungful of air I’m trying to pull. By the time his pelvis grinds against mine, I’m sobbing his name into the wood beside my head.

The physical impact shatters the last remaining piece of my armor. The size of him, filling every hollow, desperate inch of my body, obliterates the loneliness. He isn't helping me carry the burden. He’s taking the burden, snapping it over his knee, and setting it on fire.

He pulls back, the friction of his shaft dragging a wet, obscene sound from where our bodies meet. He thrusts again. Deeper. Harder.

The bench creaks loudly under our combined weight. My spine presses flat against the wood. The tacky beeswax catches my bare skin.

"Take it." His voice is a low, feral rasp against my ear.

He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He withdraws until the head of his cock almost slips free, letting the cool mountain air brush my swollen flesh, then drives his hips violently forward, burying himself to the root. The repetitive slap of his thighs against mine echoes off the wooden walls of the shed.

Every thrust rocks my body backward. My hands scramble for purchase, my palms pressing flat against the wax-scarred wood. The room smells of sex, sweat, and honey. The wet squelch of him fucking into my soaked cunt is the loudest thing in the shed—louder than the hum of the hive outside, louder than my broken moans. The single bulb swings above us, casting shadows over his tattooed shoulders. My fingers slide up his neck, feeling the ink—a chain of solid black links circling the base of his throat like a collar. I trace backward, finding the break. One link split open at the back, right where the tendons strain. The broken dog wore a collar his whole life. This is the mark of the man who slipped it.

The taste of him fills my mouth. Sweat. Salt. The faint copper edge of the bite he left on my skin. He drops his head and bites the soft swell of my breast, sucking another bruise into the curve. I feel his teeth pull at my skin. I feel the wet, deliberate drag of his tongue across the bruise after, soothing what he just claimed.

I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back. I draw him deeper. My inner walls clench tight around his thick shaft, drawing the slick up higher, milking him with every punishing stroke.

He groans. The sound is harsh, unhinged.

He bites my shoulder. His teeth scrape over my collarbone, holding me down. He’s marking his territory. Erasing the solitude. He’s stamping his claim into my flesh.

My internal voice, usually so sharp and defensive, is silenced. I thought I could handle him. I thought I could manage the heat. Please. This man is a walking natural disaster, and he’s using every inch of his body to destroy me.

But the destruction is what I crave.

He pulls back and drives into me so hard my hip slams painfully against the cast-iron uncapping tank. Pain and pleasure explode in a blinding cascade behind my eyes. I arch my back, throwing my head back, exposing the line of my neck.

"Alas," I gasp. His name fractures on my tongue.

"Mine," he says.

It isn't a question. It isn't a sweet reassurance. It’s a territorial mandate.

He grabs my hips tighter, his thumbs bruising the delicate skin of my hip bones. He speeds up his thrusts. The friction is a blazing inferno between my legs. My slick coats his shaft, the wet, slapping sounds of our bodies colliding filling the small room.

He demands total surrender. "Don't move."

I freeze, my breath panting from my lips. Every muscle in my body locks tight against the command. The effort of holding still while he hammers into me drags a fresh shudder from deep inside me. The slick between my thighs floods the wood beneath me. I can feel it pooling under my ass, soaking the wax-scarred bench.

"Good," he says against the curve of my neck. "That's it. You hold for me. You take it the way I give it to you."

He keeps thrusting, maintaining the hilt-deep rhythm, but he reaches one hand down between our bodies. His rough thumb finds my swollen, oversensitive clit. He presses down hard.

A violent shockwave rockets through my nervous system.

He grinds his thumb in a tight, punishing circle, perfectly timed with his relentless thrusting. The combination of his cock stretching my internal walls and his rough thumb destroying my clit pushes me to the edge.

I thrash against the wood. The cast-iron tank rattles loudly against the floorboards. "Alas. Please."

"Scream for it." His teeth drag over the bruise he just left. "Let it out. All of it. Give it to me."

The dam breaks. The pressure crests in a violent wave.

I shatter.

My inner walls convulse violently, clamping down hard around his shaft. A loud, ragged scream rips from my throat, echoing off the wooden walls and the glass of the single window. I climax so hard my vision goes white. Pounding waves of pleasure rack my body, milking his cock with ruthless force.