Page 29 of Fairground (Whitewood Creek Farm #3)

I knew Cash would be big. I mean, I’d felt every ridge of him when I ground down on him through thick, denim fabric, the friction so intense I couldn’t think clearly. But seeing him now—fully, at eye level—is something else entirely.

My heart picks up, and for a second, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Will it fit? I have no idea, but I’m willing to try.

The air inside the haunted house feels colder than outside, the chill from the mist and rain clinging to my damp clothes.

My jeans stick to me like a second skin, the wet fabric pressing against my still-throbbing core.

My body’s a mess of sensations, every nerve ending raw and exposed.

And yet, here I am, determined to take this behemoth of a cock down my throat like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I wrap my fingers around his shaft, marveling at the sheer girth of him as I give a few experimental pumps.

His cock swells even more in my palm, hardening to an almost impossible size.

The thick, flared head gleams in the low light, a bead of precum sliding down the tip that I watch drop to the ground next to my knee.

I’ve given my fair share of head, and I’d like to think I’m good at it, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this—like he’s been waiting for this moment, for me, his body eager in a way that’s utterly intoxicating.

My tongue darts out, flicking along the underside of his tip, teasing him with feather-light touches.

The taste of him is salty, musky, addictive.

He groans, low and guttural, his hands finding their way into my hair.

His fingers tangle in the wet strands, tightening just enough to send a shiver down my spine as he guides me forward onto the head of him.

I part my lips, taking just the swollen crown into my mouth, sucking lightly as my tongue swirls around him.

His groan deepens, vibrating through the small space, and I can’t help but feel a surge of power.

This is my turn to make him come undone, to show him that he’s not the only one who’s feeling out of control here.

For the first time, it feels like the playing field is evening out.

He’s had me at his mercy twice now, my body bending and breaking under his touch, his cool confidence never faltering.

But now? Now he’s the one groaning and cursing, his control slipping with every flick of my tongue and suck of my mouth as I take him deeper.

I pull back, letting his tip slip free with a wet pop.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he curses.

I lick along the seam of him, tracing each groove with the tip of my tongue.

“That mouth. Fuck. Just like that, baby. Get it nice and wet for me.”

I bring more saliva to my mouth then wrap my lips around him again and open wide.

His hand tightens in my hair as he pushes me further, guiding me down his length.

My lips stretch, the thickness of him filling my mouth until the tip nudges the back of my throat and I gag.

I swallow hard, trying to take him deeper, but it’s a tight fit.

The moment my throat constricts around him, a sharp choking noise escapes me, and his answering growl is feral.

“Yes,” he rasps, his free hand cupping his balls as his head tips back, eyes squeezed shut. “Your mouth feels so good. Take me again.”

His words send a thrill through me, and I brace myself, palms planted against his strong thighs, determined to push past the burn of my throat and the ache in my jaw.

This shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does.

It shouldn’t feel like the world has narrowed down to just this—his cock filling my mouth, his groans echoing in my ears, the salty tang of him on my tongue and the quiet hum of rain against the roof.

Maybe I shouldn’t want this as much as I do. But I can’t stop. Not when his hands guide me with such possessive intent. Not when every ragged breath and broken curse falls from his lips like a reward meant just for me to hear.

This might be the last time we do this. Hell, it should be the last time.

There’s too much at stake, too many reasons to keep our distance.

I can only imagine how the town would freak out if someone from the planning committee walked in on us right now.

A scandal with the two people representing this city.

I’d thought our heated dry hump was where this would end, but apparently, my greedy body had other plans. Plans I can’t seem to regret.

I pull back for air, flicking my tongue along the sensitive underside of his shaft, and he groans my name like a prayer. “That’s it, my beautiful storm cloud,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Take me deeper.”

With one last deep breath, I let him guide me again, his cock sliding back into my mouth until my lips are stretched snug around him, his tip hitting the back of my throat.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to relax as his hips flex slightly, pushing him that much further.

He curses again, his head falling back, and the raw need in his voice sets my entire body on fire.

I pull back, repeating the same motion—pumping his length with my hand before trying again, determined to take him deeper this time.

My hands cup his balls, warm and heavy, stroking gently before sliding back up his shaft.

When my mouth leaves him, my tongue licks along the edges, teasing him, savoring the taste of him, as I edge him closer and closer.

“Stop teasing me and swallow it, dammit. Swallow me whole,” he growls, his voice rough with impatience.

I laugh softly; my breath warm against his sensitive skin. “Patience isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

“Not when it comes to being inside your velvet mouth,” he snaps, his tone half-playful, half-desperate.

My lips curve into a smirk as I take him back in, slowly forcing my way down, savoring the feel of every ridge and groove of his thick length as he stretches me.

When I reach the back of my throat again, I swallow hard, my body fighting the intrusion, but I don’t stop.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I pull back for air, only for him to grip my head and hold me still.

His dark eyes meet mine, burning with heat and something possessive, something primal.

Without a word, he pushes his hips forward, sliding deeper into my throat, and I let him.

I want him to take me. To lose control. To fall apart for me.

I don’t want to be the only one wrecked and buzzing from my orgasm, still trembling and soaked through.

“Soft and sweet, you’re gonna stroke me to death,” he groans, his voice low and reverent, his fingers tightening in my hair as he takes over, fucking my face. “Use your teeth,” he commands, his tone rough and demanding, “and your nails.”

I pause for a split second, surprised, before dragging my teeth lightly along the underside of his shaft.

I’ve never had a guy ask for that before, but the moment I do, his whole body tenses, and a sharp curse falls from his lips.

His hand drops to the base of his cock, pumping hard as his eyes go wide.

“Fuck.”

I shift slightly, feeling the wetness between my legs.

“Bet you’re soaked aching for another release down there, aren’t you?”

I nod, my mouth full of his cock, eyes watering. My nails drag gently along the seam of his length while my tongue swirls around his swollen tip, flicking just enough to drive him insane. He groans, low and guttural, his chest heaving as he jerks himself faster after the base.

“Fuck, I’m gonna bust all over your chest,” he pants. “Pull down your shirt so I can see those pretty tits.”

Without hesitation, I reach up, tugging my rain soaked shirt down to bare my breasts completely, my nipples are hard and swollen, my body is slick with heat, and I'm turned on half by how I look and half by him. I want him to paint me with his release. To cover me in his seed.

His eyes lock on my chest, dark and hungry, as he jerks himself a few more times.

Then he comes with a broken groan, thick ropes of cum shooting out of him and painting my skin.

I watch, mesmerized, as his balls jerk and tighten, every inch of him trembling with release.

There's something so powerful in seeing him come undone like this all because of me.

When he’s spent, his cock still hard and throbbing, he drags the tip through the mess on my chest, smearing it across my skin with his crown.

It’s filthy, borderline demeaning, definitely not something you’d call a feminist move—but dammit, I love it.

I love the way he takes me, claims me, leaves me breathless and wanting more of him.

He tucks himself back into his jeans before reaching down to pull me to my feet. His hands are steady and warm as he smooths my shirt back into place, then he presses a lingering kiss to my forehead.

“You smell like me now and I fucking love it."

"Let me take you to your car before this storm gets any worse,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

I nod, still catching my breath, my body buzzing from what just happened. Maybe I should care that he hasn’t kissed me properly after that. That he keeps leaving me with these damn forehead kisses when all I want is for him to bend me over and fuck me.

But deep down, I know this is the right thing to do. A moment of weakness for us both to offset the sexual tension that's been brewing before we go back to being rivals and pretending that the storm between us doesn't exist.

Or maybe, Molly was right, and this is his way of playing with me. Chasing me until he gets his fill and leaves me like the other women before.