Ransom’s fingers dug into my hips, dragging me hard against the length of his cock. It was already straining at his zipper, pressing up so hot and demanding it was like the only thing in the universe that mattered. I gasped into his mouth, the friction making my head swim, and that just made him grip me harder, like he could fuse us together through force of will.
I broke the kiss long enough to wrench at his t-shirt, hauling it over his head and flinging it somewhere over my shoulder. The tattoos on his chest and arms looked even darker in the evening light, shadow pooling in the valleys of muscle and ink.
He reached for my shirt, and I let him rip it open, buttons pinging off the coffee table, exposing my ribs and the angry bruise blooming there.
He paused, just for a second, tracing the bruise with the backs of his fingers, gentle and soft in a way that made my throat close up. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, thumb circling the darkest spot.
“Not as much as I want you to,” I said.
He made a noise, half-growl, half-laugh, and leaned down to bite the place where my neck met my shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to mark. I raked my nails over his chest, feeling the hot flex of muscle beneath, and then slid both hands down to his belt. I unbuckled it in one move, dragging the denim open, my knuckles brushing the heat trapped inside.
He caught my wrist, and for a second I thought he’d stop me, but instead he just held me there, eyes dark as midnight.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer, just slid off the rest of his jeans, pushing them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, the head already wet with need. I wanted it in my mouth, wanted to taste him, but he tugged me up with one hand at the back of my neck and kissed me again, even harder than before.
We struggled out of the rest of our clothes, a tangle of limbs and curses and laughter, and when we were finally skin to skin, I climbed back into his lap. My ass pressed against his cock, the thickness of it sliding between my cheeks, making me moan and grind down until I was dizzy.
He bit at my nipples, sucking and tugging until they were hard and sore. Every time he did, I felt it like an electric shock straight to my dick. I tried to jerk myself off, but he caught my hand and pinned it to his chest.
“Not yet,” he murmured, voice like velvet scraped over gravel. “Want to see you fall apart first.”
He let go of my wrist, only to slide his hands down the line of my back, stopping to squeeze my ass, spreading me open. He spat in his hand and rubbed it between my cheeks, fingers finding the spot and teasing it, circling but not pushing in.
I was already half-gone, rocking on his lap, but when he finally slipped one finger inside, I almost came on the spot. He worked me open slow, adding another, twisting and scissoring, getting me ready even as I begged him to just do it, please, just fuck me.
He ignored my whining, all patience and control, his mouth moving up my throat and jaw, nipping at my ear. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, over and over. “So fucking tight, so good for me, can’t believe you’re mine.”
I wanted to tell him he was being sappy, but all I could do was whimper and rut against his hand, every nerve in my body tuned to him.
At some point he fished a condom and a single use packet of lube out of the pocket of his jeans, ripped the condom open with his teeth, and rolled it on with shaking hands. He slicked himself up, and when he pulled me forward, lining me up with the blunt head of his cock, my whole body went tense with anticipation.
He kissed me, softer this time, almost gentle. “Let me,” he said, voice barely audible.
I nodded, too far gone for words. He positioned me over him, hands under my thighs, holding me steady. Then, slow and relentless, he guided me down, pushing inside inch by inch.
The stretch was perfect, just shy of too much, making me shudder with every new depth. I grabbed his shoulders for leverage, fingers digging into the ridges of his tattoos, holding on for dear life.
When I was finally seated all the way, his cock buried to the root, we both froze. His breath was ragged against my neck, his hands shaking.
“Fuck,” he said, voice broken. “Floyd—”
I rocked my hips, slow at first, just to feel the drag and burn of him inside me. He matched my movement, thrusting up as I pushed down, setting a rhythm that had the whole couch creaking under us.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. Everything that mattered was right here, in the way his body moved under mine, the way he bit my shoulder and growled my name, the way he held me like I was the last man alive.
I was so close it was almost painful, every thrust grinding my dick between our stomachs, every motion sparking a fresh wave of heat.
He reached down, wrapped his hand around my cock, and started jerking me off in time with his thrusts. The slickness, the friction, the pressure—fuck, I was going to lose it.
He looked up at me, eyes blazing. “Come for me, Sheriff,” he ordered.
I did. Hard. It hit me so fast and so deep I saw stars, white-out blinding pleasure that left me shaking and gasping. My cum splattered across his chest and stomach, and that sight—me, marked all over him—must have done it, because he jerked up into me, buried his face in my neck, and came with a guttural shout.
We stayed like that for a long time, not moving, just breathing each other in. Finally, he pulled me down, held me tight, and whispered, “You’re mine now.”
I smiled, lazy and spent. “Always was.”
