Page 215 of Rebellious

“Take it, baby,” he said, slightly breathless from drowning between her legs. “It’s all fucking yours.”

Lifting her with ease, he guided her to his hard cock and set her down. She squatted over him. Fingers closing around his prick, she dragged it along her slit before she sank down. They moaned. It didn’t matter that they’d just fucked. Any time away from Megan’s pussy was too fucking long. If he had it his way, he’d live inside the motherfucker, never separating from her.

Placing her hands on his chest, she began to bounce, fucking herself on his cock. He let her set the pace, content to watch her tits jiggle and her hair wiggle as she rode him. Her pale skin was flushed a pretty pink, her pussy bush soaked with her juices, her nipples hard from the cool night’s air. Megan was always a vision, but doubly so when they were making love.

She threw her head back, blonde hair cascading down her back, nails raking down his chest as she sped up.

“Christopher,” she moaned, her voice breathy and wanton.

“I’m right fucking here, baby,” he replied, thrusting upwards to meet her motions.

Skin slapped against skin, echoing in the night. Their blanket rumpled from their movements, and grass tickled patches of Christopher’s back and thighs.

“Christopher!” Megan cried again.

Her pussy walls clamped around him and he groaned. He wouldn’t last much longer. Wanting to feel her cream around his cock, he brought a hand to her clit and caressed her tender flesh.

She groaned.

“Oooooo,” he mimicked. “Yeah, baby. Come on my dick.”

Her pussy slickened, tightened, expanded, her eyes rolling back in her head and she screamed as she flooded his cock and balls.

He roared, pleasure racing down his spine as cum jetted from his. She collapsed against him, their pants mingling. Basking in the afterglow, he wrapped his arms around her, still inside his wife, unwilling to part with her wet warmth.

Long minutes later, she lifted up and kissed him, then slid next to him. Immediately, he pulled her into the crook of his arms.

Around them, the southern slopes of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest opened into a vast, rugged theater. There are no campground loops, no numbered posts, and no neighbors—just a sprawling, primitive pull-off carved into the gravel and volcanic soil off Forest Road 83. To their backs, the dark, sweeping silhouette of Mount St. Helens blocked out a fraction of the horizon, a silent giant watching over the wilderness.

The night air carried a biting chill that smelled of melted snow and wet cedar. Camped completely out in the open, away from the dense canopy of the lower valleys, the sky felt infinite.

He kissed the top of her head. “We need to get the sleeping bag and thermals.”

“The sweat is chilling me,” she admitted.

His contentment fled and he eased his arm from underneath her head. Sitting up, he snatched his T-shirt and held it out to Megan.

“Put this on,” he ordered.

Once she complied, he helped her to her feet and handed her his phone. She turned on the flashlight, illuminating the way to his bike, where he got the rolled sleeping bag from one saddlebag and a pair of thermals for each of them from the other.

They dressed next to his bike, then he guided her back to their campsite. She sat on the blanket, in charge of the flashlight until the match he lit sparked a flame that caught the nest of dry kindling he’d set up when they first arrived.

Settled into the sleeping bag, entwined in each other’s arms, Christopher thought about Lance Hart’s deal, which Megan knew nothing about.

Crackling wood broke the mountain stillness, a simple, perfect escape from the rest of the world. Except the outside was always there, waiting to intrude and pounce. This time, he’d been the motherfucker to open that door. He sighed.

“What, Christopher?”

“I got something to tell you, Megan,” he admitted, turning on his side and wishing there was more light so he could stare into her eyes.

She faced him and pressed a kiss to his chest. “I’m listening, my love.”

“I closed on a big deal with a motherfucker named Lance Hart.”

“Lance Hart? The tech—”

“Yeah. That crooked fuckhead.”