Page 38 of Cowboy in Colorado

He doesn’t respond in words, but renews his oral assault on me, and when I begin to tremble, he slides the hand supporting me from underneath my butt up and around to hook two thick fingers inside me, curling perfectly and pulling out and slicking in as if he knows exactly how I want to be touched, as if he could hear my mental plea for more. Or maybe that plea for more isn’t so mental—

I hear myself moaning, and the moans are nearly unintelligible as words: “Yes, yes, yes—right there, oh fuck oh god, please putsomethinginside me—”

I come apart with a deafening scream, spine arching to lift almost my entire body off the bed with a nearly painful and concussive orgasm, heat blasting through me and making me quaver head to toe, shaking crazily all over, and then my hips are driving against his mouth, taking his lips and tongue and fingers and aching for so much more.

I rip at his hair, yanking him upward, and he grunts at the tug of my fingers.

“Jesus, woman, calm down,” he mutters.

“Not until you fuck me properly,” I snap.

He levers over me on one hand, knees between my thighs, staring down at me. “Is that how it is?”

I reach a hand between our bodies and clutch his latex-encased shaft, marveling at the size of it, and wishing I’d taken a moment to feel him bare before he wrapped himself up.

Later, I promise myself. Before this is over, whenever that may be.

I cup his taut heavy sac and explore the tender softness of it and the ripples of the veins and folds of the skin, and then let my grip slide up the shaft again, watching his reaction. His jaw clenches again, and his breathing stops.

“That’s how it is,” I say.

I grasp him in both fists, and pull him to me. He follows my tugging, shifting his weight forward until he’s on both hands and knees and the tip of his shaft is nudging my opening. He pauses, and I’m not breathing, our eyes are locked and a million thoughts speed through my mind in a tangled blur—this is a mistake, he’s going to break my heart, this is going to be the best sex I’ve ever had, if this is as amazing as I think it’s going to be I’ll end up wanting him more than I know how to handle and holy shit he’s huge can I even fit that monster cock of his inside me?

He still hesitates. “Can you take it all?”

He’s referring to his totally and completely ridiculous size—he knows exactly how big he is, and he’s making sure I can handle it all.

I grin up at him, another of those wicked, predatory smirks, and claw both hands into the taut, hard meat of his ass, pulling him against me and lifting my hips to writhe against him, heels hooked around the backs of his thighs. “Let’s find out.”

He enters me in a rush, in a stinging, burning, aching, delirious slide of iron through silk. My sex is soaked with desire and I’m clenched and trembling and when he pushes in I can’t help but whimper, a breathless, quavery gasp.

“Good?” he mutters.

I put my lips to his shoulder, nodding. “If you stop now, I’ll bite a chunk out of your big stupid shoulder.”

He laughs, and drives all the way in until our hips meet with a crash of bone and flesh. “You’re a real wildcat, aren’t you?”

I rake my claws into his ass and laugh with him. “You’re about to find out.”

He bows his spine up, pushes harder to get deeper while drawing his lips in a stuttering slide down my sternum and between my breasts, which drape to either side with the pull of gravity. He props his weight on one hand and uses the other to cup my breast and bring it back up and to his mouth, and his lips suction around the stiffened nipple, sending a spasm of giddiness soaring through me.

I can’t hold still any longer, and neither can he. He moves, and I move with him, our actions coming in perfect sync—he pulls back and I lower my hips, and then he slowly pushes in and I writhe up to meet him. Again, and this time the next drive comes faster, and I gasp out loud, the sound of my voice faint and breathless, but his answering groan is just as incoherent, just as breathless.

He grips my breast harder, clutching it for purchase, for leverage as he crushes into me, our cores meeting with a loud slap punctuated by a whimper from me and groan from Will. I paw at him, fingernail trailing down his spine and digging into his thick shoulders and curling around his buttocks, pulling at him in a wordless plea to go harder, to get deeper.

“Need more,” I murmur, arching forward, using my abdominal muscles to strain upward.

He moves backward away from me, shifting to sit on his shins, and his hands slide under my ass and he lifts me and pulls me closer—when my butt is resting on his knees and his shaft is bent away from at what has to be an uncomfortable angle, Will wraps his hands around my ankles and pushes my legs up so my feet face the ceiling. He lifts up onto his knees, spreads me apart and leans against the backs of my legs; god, what an ignominious, awkward, embarrassing angle, so vulnerable, so at his mercy. My spine is curled and pressed down into the mattress, my weight on my neck and head, hands scrabbling uselessly at the blankets to either side of my hips. I am utterly without any kind of control in this position. I cannot move on my own, can’t thrust, can’t show him if I want it faster or slower, harder or more gently.

“Will—”

He’s buried deep, hips against my ass, fully impaled. His eyes are fierce and virulently blue and wild and mad, churning and sparking, and his jaw is clenched and pulsating—a world of words boils unspoken behind his eyes. He doesn’t move, and our eyes are locked, a burning connection searing between us. I can’t find words either, and I’m never at a loss for something to say, but somehow, here, now, with Will, after the day I’ve had, I’m in a bizarre place and emotionally vulnerable and despite his cranky, contrary attitude and unwillingness to listen to me or speak much, he has been attentive and gentle and seems to know without having to be told or asked or shown what I want, what I need.

But I do NOT like this position. My favorite positions are ones where I have control. Cowgirl, or better yet, reverse cowgirl. Even in vanilla old missionary, I have some input and control over pace. In doggy style, too.

Like this? None.

“Will, this isn’t—”