Page 100 of Holding Penalty

“Fucking hell, Piper.” Nash’s eyes press shut, almost like he’s in pain. “If you’re really planning on riding me while wearing that cowboy hat, you can’t hold it against me if I don’t last two minutes.”

“Come on, cowboy,” I say, a challenging grin slanting my lips. “Have a little more fight in you than that.”

Nash’s nostrils flare, and he plants his hands on the sides of my hips. My stomach tilts as Nash lifts me up, hoisting me in the air so his hard cock lines up with my opening.

My eyes roll as I ease myself onto him. My walls stretch around him, and the sensation of utter fullness sends a heady wave of satisfaction rolling through me.

I hum with pleasure as I get into a rhythm, bouncing on his hips and spearing myself with his thick length. Nash’s fingers knead into the softness of my hips as he throws his head back, and I watch the bulge of his Adam’s apple jump in his throat.

My eyes feast on the sight of Nash’s body laid out underneath me. The rounded curve of his shoulders, the broad planes of his chest, the sharp, defined cut of his abs that ripple as I ride him. His beautiful physique is bathed in silvery moonlight, and as sweat breaks out across his skin, the droplets glimmer in it.

The air tonight is humid and sticky, and a sheen of sweat quickly works its way over my naked body.

I lift my arm to grab hold of the brim of Nash’s cowboy hat. Nash’s eyes flash at the sight, intensity sharpening the hard lines of his face. He slaps his hands onto my ass, the sound of his palm against my sweaty skin making a sharp thwack. He grabs hold and starts to pump his hips, making an obscene slapping sound as he meets my bounces with his thrusts.

“Ride me, baby,” Nash says. “Ride me like a good cowgirl.”

One hand still rests on the brim of the hat, the other planted on Nash’s sweat-slicked chest for balance. A breeze rustles over the plain. The cool wind is a blissful relief against my hot, buzzing skin as we work up a sultry heat between us.

A ball of pressure swells in my core, growing as I ride Nash like a bucking bronco. Nash brings his right hand to my front, rubbing my clit with his thumb, and the pressure increases tenfold.

“Oooh,” I moan in pure ecstasy, rolling my hips into his touch. “That’s so fucking good, Nash.”

“Fuck, baby, you’re so close. I can feel you clenching around me.”

He’s right. I’m right at the edge of release, but I’m trying to hold it back, loving how this feels too much to want it to be over.

Somewhere in the distance, across the planes, I see two specks of light. Car headlights. Maybe someone driving around on some land they own out on the plane, or on a far-off road. The road we’re pulled to the side of is still silent and empty, but seeing some signs of life out here while I’m riding my husband in the bed of his truck has excitement swooping through my chest.

The pad of Nash’s thumb angles against my clit in just the right way that I can’t hold back my climax any longer. All-consuming pleasure unfurls through me. My spine feels like jelly as I shudder over Nash, coming undone as he draws slow circles over my clit to extend my orgasm.

Just as I crest over the peak, I feel Nash’s release gush into me. His muscles flex and strain, glittering as the moonlight dances on his body.

Another refreshing breeze sweeps over us as we come down. It’s unspeakably delightful, feeling the gentle wind cool my body while endorphins flood my brain and calm satisfaction spreads through me.

Nash and I lay next to each other on the blanket afterward. We don’t keep track of time, we don’t worry about someone driving by. We just lay, twined together, looking up at the bright moon and the dark sky, caressed by the occasional breeze to refresh the hot night.

My heart is so full of emotion that it’s a paradox how it feels light instead of heavy.

There’s one emotion sitting in it that’s growing harder not to name. It’s an emotion that a wife is supposed to feel for her husband.

I wonder if Nash’s heart is starting to carry that same emotion. When I brush my hand over his chest, right over where that heart beats, hope blooms through me that maybe it is.

47

NASH

The lights in our kitchen are low and warm, and relaxing piano jazz plays at a soothing volume as Piper and I do the dishes after dinner.

We cooked a big pot of chili tonight. Well, actually, we cooked two. The first one turned out awful, but instead of giving up and ordering delivery or going to a restaurant, Piper insisted we start over. Our second effort was surprisingly good.

Spicy as anything, though. Something Piper handled a lot better than me, chowing down on it like it hardly had a kick while my eyes watered. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Nash?” Piper asks, her voice soft and tentative.

I break off humming to the tune playing. “Yeah?”

“I have a question I kind of want to ask. But I’m not sure I should.”