Page 111 of Smut Lovers

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Georgie

G eorgie is between a rock and a hard place.

The ground beneath her is damp but unyielding, an outer slickness of mud under a layer of hard, packed clay dirt and the rock? Well, the rock's between her thighs, pushing dangerously against her clit in a way that makes her claw at the wolf-man's face.

He ducks from her attack, his nose gliding up her neck, leaving a trail of mud she knows will be hell to get off later. If there is a later, that is. He nips the skin there as he grinds against her.

When Georgie was young she used to masturbate like this, something hard between her legs, grinding against her panty covered clit.

It brings her back to a time where shame didn’t exist, where her only thought was to chase the high of the kind of pleasure that sends sparks through her synapses, making her pant with wild need.

She isn't supposed to.

Her mother surely didn’ want her to.

But her mama was dead, lost to a man she’d stayed with for far longer than she should have.

There’s a growl against her throat. It’s shocking to hear such a sound come from human lips, from human teeth,

It raises goosebumps along her arms and legs.

His hips grind up in slow, settled movements that don't match the way his chest rises and falls in its haphazard pattern.

He rubs his forehead across her collarbone.

It reminds her of a cat, like he's marking his territory.

She's not sure she even has a choice anymore.

Despite everything, she likes that part the most.

It’s a weight lifted off of her shoulders; she's not doing this. He is.

She can distance herself from the responsibility of it, the overwhelming and crushing weight of sanity and propriety.

He's an animal. Wild. Untamed. She's just here fighting for her life.

Even that tastes like a lie.

His need is thick between her legs and in the lengthening of his teeth. They grow against her, sharp, long, and slick.

She doesn't have to picture his claws growing. She can feel those too, feel it in her hips where he grips her tight, in the snag of her dress every time she lifts hers to meet them.

Fighting for her life, huh?

Georgie isn't a good liar, even to herself, so she stops trying.

She closes her eyes tight against the world, pretending his ragged breathing is the only thing that exists. Starlight dances across her skin as she arches her back. She uses her hips to put more pressure where she needs it most.

“Yes, fuck.” His cry is nothing short of maddening, delicious in its desire, melting down on her skin like honey over hotcakes. “Take what you need, baby. Take what's yours.”

The words are like dynamite in a coal mine.

Her body rumbles with it, matching the animal sound in his chest. There's a sharp pain at her hips, the slap of rug burn. The air around them grazes her clit. The snap of her panties is loud above the sound of her own whimpers.

The head of his cock sliding across her wet, throbbing clit is the first sip of cold ice tea when she's been out in the sun all day, sweating and spent.

Pleasure rips through her stomach, through her lungs.

Georgie's legs clench around his hips as if to keep her in place, to keep her on solid ground.

Those clawed hands lift her legs up, spread them wide, and pin them to the ground beside her.

Her fingers are in his hair. Hair she didn't realize was long until the length of it brushed across her skin.

She grips it, pushes, or maybe she's pulling, she can't tell.

All she can tell is that his fangs are sharp across her throat.

They burn everywhere he scores, just enough to make her eyes roll back.

He leans back to look between them, to watch his cock slide up and down her slit, teasing her with his length until she's as much an animal as he is. The noises coming from inside her are something she's never even heard from herself.

“Look at that,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

She’s shaking, the friction between her legs too much to take. She wants to come—no, needs to so badly she might cry from not having it.

“I'm gonna fuckin’ breed you, Little Fox.

I'm gonna fuck this cunt so much it's gonna mold to my shape, and ain't no one else gonna be able to satisfy you like me.” His laughter is anything but joyous now; it's low. Dark, sinful. Dear God, she thinks maybe he is the devil . “But they can try. A man’s gotta eat now he’s found purpose.”

Flashes of his face with dried blood dripping down his chin burn across her vision.

It’s still there, mixed and caked with mud and dirt, but she’s never wanted someone so badly.

She wants to kiss him. Wants his lips on hers; wants the copper tang, but he’s so far away.

His eyes aren’t even on hers; they’re on the slide of their bodies between them.

She thinks it must be like ripping off a Band-Aid, the way he has to drag his gaze away. She isn’t ready for the way the head of his dick knocks against her clit or the way he lets the final drag leave a trail of sensation before he thrusts inside her.

She’s not ready for the way it rips something from her throat—a curse, a moan, a mix between the two.

Georgie has never held onto anything so tightly in her life, but she’s holding onto him like she might not survive letting go.

“Did it feel like this with that boy of yours, little fox?” he asks.

His voice isn’t even man anymore; it’s animal, a low growl that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, that brings goosebumps to her skin. “Was it?”

No , she thinks.

No, it never felt like this with Evan. It never could have.

“Fuckin’ answer me, Georgie.”

She doesn’t know where her voice is. It’s somewhere deep in the tree canopy or crawling away through the grass.

Unfortunately for Georgie, he slows.

He drags the motion of his hips out. When she tries to push forward, he digs his claws into her sides. She screams, not because it hurts but because he’s almost barely moving. Her body starts to go through withdrawals. It’s shaking with the need to move.

“I swear on this precious fuckin’ cunt, I’ll stop.”

“No!”

It’s not so much a word or a plea as a holy scripture. She repeats it, over and over, in her head, maybe out loud, because he’s snarling, those canines poised over his bottom lip. His eyes are like glass, like there’s a little light behind them, a yellow ring of something bright.

“No, it wasn’t like this? No, you don’t care? No, you want me to stop?”

Georgie’s brain is scrambled, fried. She can’t think straight. All she can do is try to move her hips, but he holds onto her tighter.

“Pick one,” he says, his voice damn near inhuman, the syllables slurring into one another, “Pick one, or I’ll pick for you.”

Georgie should be terrified.

She can barely process the way his jaw juts out higher or the way his face seems a little wider. She worries that he’s changin’, that she’ll blink and suddenly he’ll be gone, a wolf hovering over her in his place, but the thought doesn’t deter her the way she thinks it ought to.

In fact, she feels just how much it doesn’t.

“It wasn’t like this.” Her voice is high, soft, like she’s holding onto her lungs by the edges and stretching them out. “It’s never been like this.”

He’s growing inside her, like someone’s inflating parts of him that make his pull-out a little rougher, his thrust a little tighter. The answer pleases him, she can tell, because he rewards her with quick, slapping paces that hit this one particular spot.

Toys can be too big.

Evan was just a little short, a little too thin for perfection.

But this man? He hits every fucking button. He’s thick, just long enough to scratch an itch Georgie didn’t even know she had, let alone think she could fill. It’s like sliding into home base, like he was carved out and made for her.

It opens her further, her body seesawing between slick, open heat and tight, convulsing grips each time he thrusts into her. His neck is pulled to the side, one hand holding himself up from her, the other pulling her onto his dick.

She can see the vein throbbing there. It’s calling to her. Georgie likes to be bitten, but she’s never wanted to do the biting, not until now, not until this man. She doesn’t even have time to think about it really.

Instinct.

Her fingers dig in tighter against his scalp as she drags his face to hers. There’s shock maybe, a boyish grin on his face before she strikes out. Her own teeth are like fangs against that thrumming heated line on his neck.

She feels his next thrust all the way in her throat. There’s a sharpness between her legs that makes her bite down harder, that makes her scream into him as he pounds deeper and faster but he doesn’t stop her from sucking on the wound she’s creating.

He fucks her until her walls are closing in around them both, tightening so hard it keeps him from moving properly.

She’s never felt anything like this, so thick, so centralized.

She knows exactly where the pressure is, could almost point it on the map of her body, but she doesn’t understand what exactly it is.

His dick drags across the walls of her cunt until he’s locked between her legs, that knot inside of her that keeps him there.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans above her; his sweat-drenched forehead touches the space between her neck and shoulder. He hunches over her, lifting her hips with his hands. “Wrap those pretty legs ‘round me.”

She does.

Georgie releases the skin, relishes the bright, purple mark on his neck, wraps her legs around his waist, trying her best to lock them in place at the ankles.

In one fluid motion she’s above him.

There’s a moment of panic, she thinks, where she’ll have to bear the weight of her choices, but she needn't have worried. There’s no choice when the wolf-man plants his legs firmly into the ground, his eyes fixed on her.

“You’re gonna do that again,” he pants, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. It’s disgustingly erotic, so fucking hot the way he arches his back, digs his body into the ground, “Fuck, you’re gonna do that every fuckin’ time, baby. Claim me like that. Mark me up like a goddamn Etch-A-Sketch.”

Georgie doesn’t have any words left.

She nods because she doesn’t want him to stop, not when he’s pushing and pulling her hips back and forth on his lap. He tilts his own to meet hers, just the right amount so that the coarse hair scattered across his skin scrapes across the hot, throbbing of her clit.

She’s on fire.

It’s in her lungs, eating up every inch of her body like the prescription burns they set before summer to keep the swamp from burning down, but this is worse.

Worse because all she can do is throw her head back and scream to the treetops as the man beneath her fucks her until everything has spots dancing across her vision.

Georgie’s never been one for fireworks, but they’re visible every Fourth of July right on the front porch, cresting over the trees. A person can close your eyes and still see the flame of them days later. That’s what she feels now.

She’s just caught between fireworks.

Her legs shake so hard she thinks there might be a genuine earthquake.

“Touch yourself,” he growls beneath her. “Paint me in your cum.”

It isn’t an order she wants to push against.

Georgie leans over him, one hand against his chest, the other between their legs.

She’s messy at first, too much slickness, too much sweat.

Her arms are tired, shaking. Her fingers can’t find purchase until he shifts them until she’s perfectly rubbing circles across her clit, around it, just above it and her toes are curling.

He’s barely moving now; she doesn’t think he could if he tried, not without hurting her. She’s clenched too tight around him. There’s something more to him now than there had been when she started, something locking them together.

When she comes, it’s all neon flashing lights of color and sound.

It’s hot, burning.

Her skin is on fire, being eaten up by the flood of endorphins that rush her system until she’s barely alive anymore. For fuck’s sake, she can’t even open her eyes to see straight.

He’s calling her name; it’s only now she realizes it’s not the first time he’s done that. She realizes she doesn’t even know what his name is.

He sits up under her, his knuckle pushin’ the sweat-drenched curls off her face, her neck.

She can’t breathe.

The fucking has nothing to do with it. It’s his eyes, the way they glow in the dark, almost neon, that yellow ring flashing underneath dark, shimmering green.

His hand grips her face. There’s a skitter in her stomach, a flutter in her heart that brushes the thought of Evan through her mind for a millisecond before he’s pushing his thumb into her mouth. She’s reminded, so vividly, with that one movement that he's dead.

He can read her racing thoughts, or maybe he sees it etched into her eyes, because he’s pulling her face to his. “That's the last time you'll ever taste him, Little Fox.”

She wants to cry with relief at that. He doesn't give her the time to. His arms loop around her back.

Georgie thinks she might not ever have been kissed before.

If this was a kiss, all teeth and tongue, eating one another, gripping until her skin is sore, then no. Georgie has never been kissed before this .

Dirt scratches across her tongue. It’s rough on her lips, the swollen, plumping lips against his. Copper and tang is layered over the taste of spearmint.

Georgie shivers at the taste of Evan’s blood between them.

She doesn’t know how much time passes.

Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders. He lifts them both until he’s standing, his hands on her ass, moving one knee up first, then the other.

He doesn’t stop kissing her.

He can’t seem to. Every time she pulls away, he finds another place on her skin to suck, to lick, to bite. Her heart is beating in time with his.

Georgie shivers, laughter building in her stomach at the way he can’t seem to stop smiling against her body.

When she isn’t lookin’, he hefts her onto his shoulder, her ass close enough to his face that he bites the side closest to him. His hand slaps the other.

Georgie doesn’t try to stop herself from laughing anymore.

The sound gets eaten up by the world ‘round them, by the cicadas, the crickets.

The buzzing of the swamp.

It’s alive, and loud, and laughing with her.