As soon as his hands were free, he gripped her about the waist and rolled her to her back, following her over. He reached for the drawer to his bedside table and pulled out a condom. He tied it around his aching cock, swiped some oil from his chest, and rubbed it over the lambskin. Resting on his elbows, he gripped her head between his hands and pushed into heaven.
He burrowed into her in one slow glide. When he bottomed out, the connection he felt with her was absolute.
And unsettling. Netta was a lovely woman, but he wasn’t a man subject to soft feelings and foolish sentimentality.
So he reared back onto his knees and did what he did best. Fucked. Hard.
Netta closed her eyes, her mouth open in a perfect ‘o’ as he pounded into her tight cunny. A rosy flush pinkened her skin all over, and she raised her arms to lace her fingers through the headboard, pushing into each of his thrusts.
“I’ve never felt anything so good,” she said, chest heaving.
Neither had he. She was the sweetest fuck he’d ever had. He could screw her for—
No. He slammed the door on that thought. Hooking his arm under her leg, he lifted her calf to his shoulder and pounded into her harder. Faster.
Sweat beaded on his brow. He had one thing to offer women, and he was going to give Netta his best. She might be a brazen, devious, adorable wench, but not even that could entice him into something more lasting.
The nerve endings along his cock screamed for relief. A tickle bloomed low on his spine and his whole body tensed.
“Are you close, poppet?” He scored her calf with his teeth. “Tell me that you’re close.”
“Mmm.” She bit her lower lip. “Almost.” Much too slowly for John’s liking, she trailed her finger tips over her abdomen and into her nest of curls. With one finger, she circled her clit, her body shuddering.
He joined her finger with his own. There was a time for leisure, but this wasn’t it. He rubbed her pouting nub, holding back his own pleasure with all of his might. He almost wept when her inner walls pulsed around him.
“John!” She threw her head back, her face a mask of agonized pleasure.
He fell forwards, planting his hands on either side of her head and hammered into her as his balls drew up tight and ecstasy exploded out of him.
He groaned, the sound torn from deep within. His hips kept rocking into her on their own volition, eking out every ounce of pleasure they could.
The heat of her body was an invitation. He wanted to sink into her, wrap his arms around her, and not let go until sleep took them both.
Instead, he pulled out and flopped to his back, trying to catch his breath.
She patted his chest. “That was fun,” she said. Her breath was as short as his at the exertion. “I should bring out the feather more often.”
He swiveled his head to look at her. “I’m burning that feather.”
She laughed, turning on her side. She rested her head on her hands and rubbed her toe against his calf. “You play with me; I play with you.” She yawned. “Why do you add games to your bed sport?”
“Don’t you enjoy them?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Obviously I do. Especially tonight’s. But it is a little unusual. When you made me believe we were about to be caught, I found it…” She chewed her lip.
“Thrilling? Arousing?”
“I was going to say panic-inducing, but I’ll accept your characterization.”
He bent his arm, bringing his hand beneath his head. “It’s called predicament play. I enjoy putting women in situations that confuse the mind. That push her boundaries, or where she feels like there is no way to win.”
“Why?”
“I find the thrill can act on a woman as a drug.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t your crisis more fulfilling when you felt close to being caught in the gazebo?”
“All my climaxes are fulfilling.” She tangled her foot in his own. “But why doyoudo it? It can’t purely be for the woman’s benefit.”
“Does everything need a reason?” he asked. “It’s fun. I enjoy controlling a woman’s responses.” When he directed a woman’s emotions, her passions, it was easier to keep their relationship casual. To keep her from becoming too attached.
