Page 13 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

She moans my name against my hair. The first time she’s said it out loud since I crashed into her property yesterday. The sound hits the base of my skull and turns the violence into something brutal and quiet.

I drag my mouth up her jawline.

Claim her mouth.

No permission. No asking. Just a collision.

My lips crash down over hers. She opens for me instantly. A surrender. I thrust my tongue deep into her mouth. Devouring her. Tasting black coffee and cinnamon. Tasting the wild, desperate need matching my own.

The kiss is a violent war. Teeth clashing. Tongues wrapping together. A wet, filthy slide of saliva and heat. I swallow her moans. Drink them straight from her throat.

Press my hips forward. Pin her against the wooden hive box.

My cock is a painfully hard length of steel inside my jeans. Aching. Throbbing. I grind it against the soft junction of her thighs.

Through the stiff canvas of her bee suit. Through the heavy fabric. The friction is a violent shockwave shooting straight through me.

I grind again. Harder. Rolling my hips in a deliberate circle.

She arches up into the pressure. A desperate, whimpering sound vibrates against my tongue. She chases the friction. Needs it.

I wrench my mouth away. Gasping for cold mountain air.

"Mine," I growl against her wet lips.

My hands drop from the wood. I grab the metal zipper at the collar of her canvas suit. Rip it down. The harsh screech of metal teeth separating cuts through the hum of the bees.

I drag the zipper all the way down to her waist. Grab the shoulders of the suit. Shove the stiff fabric down her arms. Trapping her elbows against her sides. Trapping her inside the protective gear.

Underneath, she wears a thin, worn gray tank top. No bra.

The cold mountain air hits her heated skin. The peaks of her breasts pebble instantly. Hard, tight points pushing visibly against the thin cotton.

The sight of those pale tits makes my vision blur with red-hot lust.

A single Russian hybrid bee lands on her exposed collarbone. It crawls slowly over her heated skin. It doesn’t sting. It just buzzes lazily, drinking the salt of her sweat.

I don’t swat it away. I just drop my head and press an open-mouthed kiss right next to the insect. The bee vibrates against my cheek. Docile. We’re a violent force of nature, and the hive simply accepts us as its own.

The bee crawls down the slope of her collarbone toward the hollow at the base of her throat. I track its movement with my eyes. Then with my mouth. I lower my head and press my open mouth against the same skin, the bee just inches from my lower lip. My tongue drags slow over her pulse. The bee lifts, drifts, settles on my jaw. I don't move. Neither does Susan. The two of us locked in perfect stillness, the hive humming, the warm sweet wax in the air, and her wet pulse hammering against my tongue. Her hands fist in the back of my shirt. She’s trying not to make a sound. The bee crawls back to her collarbone, knowing which body is which.

I grab the hem of the gray tank top. Rip it upward.

The fabric bunches above her breasts. Exposing the pale weight of them. The dark pink nipples are tight, hard, and perfect.

I take the right one into my mouth.

She screams. A high, wild sound breaking into the quiet morning.

I suck hard. Pulling the sensitive flesh deep into the wet heat of my mouth. Swirling my tongue over the tight peak. Scraping my teeth against the hardened nub.

Her fingers dig frantically into my shoulders. Her nails bite through my shirt, scratching the skin underneath.

I drag my tongue in a slow circle around the dark, swollen peak before I take it back into my mouth. I suck hard, pulling the nipple deep against the roof of my mouth. The wet, obscene sound of my mouth on her flesh layers under the hum of the hive. She moans, a high, broken sound. I scrape my teeth gently across the tight peak before releasing it. A bead of saliva slicks her bare skin. The cold mountain air hits the wet circle on her flesh, and her whole body jerks at the contrast.

I move to the left breast. Claim it just as violently. Biting, sucking, licking the slick wetness of my saliva off her skin. Worshipping the weight of her tits. Biting the soft underside. Sucking another mark next to the first. Leaving a row of red, blooming claims along the curve of her flesh. She fists my hair in both hands. Her hips chase the heavy ridge of my cock through the stiff canvas of her suit and the denim of my jeans.

She grinds her hips up into mine. A frantic, uncoordinated thrust. Begging for the pressure. Begging for the ridge of my cock.