His hand tightens on my throat, not choking, just holding—claiming.
Eyes lock on mine, burning. "Look at me."
I do, drowning in those depths. "I'm yours, Spur."
He groans, pace quickening. Hips snap harder, cock slamming deep, hitting that spot relentlessly.
The bed creaks under us, quilt tangling further.
Sweat slicks our skin, his chest hair tickling my breasts as he leans down, sucking a nipple into his mouth.
Teeth graze the peak, tongue swirling, while his free hand kneads the other globe, pinching until I arch.
"Tight little pussy," he mutters against my skin, voice wrecked. "Squeezing me like you never want me out." Thrusts turn punishing, balls slapping my ass.
My clit throbs under the grind of his pubic bone, fingers digging into his biceps, feeling tattoos shift under my nails.
A second orgasm builds fast, deeper this time—spreading from core to limbs. "Spur—fuck, I'm—" My words die as it hits.
My pussy clamps down, milking his cock in rhythmic pulses. Waves rip through me, vision blurring, body convulsing beneath him.
He follows with a roar, name tearing from his throat. "Dakota!"
His cock swells, then erupts, hot jets of cum painting my walls.
He grinds through it, prolonging my high, until another peak shudders over me, weaker but no less intense.
We collapse, his weight crushing me into the mattress—perfect, grounding.
His cock still buried deep, softening but plugging his seed inside.
His face buries in my hair, breaths hot puffs against my scalp.
His arm bands my waist, possessive hold.
I stroke his back, tracing scars, content in the tangle.
Neither of us moves. Not yet. The morning stretches lazy around us, the world outside forgotten.
He's mine. I'm his. And this—his mouth waking me, cock filling me, cum leaking slow between us—is heaven.
But he shifts eventually, nuzzling my neck. "Shower?"
"Mm."
He laughs against my neck—a low rumble I feel against my spine—and pulls out of me slowly.
I miss the fullness the second it's gone. He sees my face and his laugh goes softer.
"Cabin's not going anywhere, baby. Come here."
He pulls me up out of his bed and walks me to his bathroom.
The shower is small—one of those old ranch-cabin showers with cracked tile and a curtain that doesn't quite close all the way, and he steps in first and pulls me in after him, his hand at my hip the whole time.
The water hits warm. He gets me under it.
His hands move slowly over my shoulders, my back, the small of my waist where his thumb has lived since the tack room.
