Page 14 of My Broken Biker

He puts his mouth on me and I gasp hard and both hands go straight to his hair.

He starts direct, no building up to it, his tongue strong, and his hands hold my inner thighs open and I feel every individual finger pressing in.

He listens to the sounds I make. When something makes me louder he goes back there.

His hands on my thighs tighten when I start moving against him and he holds me still and keeps going at exactly the pace he sets, not faster no matter what I'm doing, and that control does its own work on me.

My hands go from his hair to the sheets and back to his hair. I'm making sounds into the ceiling that I am not managing.

He stays steady and focused and by the time I come it comes all the way through me, hard and complete, my thighs locking around his head, my back off the mattress, my whole body clenching and releasing in long waves, and he stays with me until the last of it passes and I go fully loose.

He pulls back. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks at me.

I'm breathing in pieces.

"Turn over," he says.

I roll onto my stomach.

Both his hands run down my back slowly and then over the full curve of my backside, and he grips there, both hands, taking a real handful on each side, and the flesh of it is soft and heavy in his grip and he doesn't rush it.

He takes his time, squeezing, and I feel his thumbs pressing in. Then he leans down and bites the curve of my ass, sharp enough that I make a sound into the pillow.

His hands find my hips. He pulls them up, kneeling me forward with my backside raised toward him and my face against the mattress and my thighs open on the bed.

I feel the width of my own hips in his hands, his grip on the flare of them, his fingers pressed into the soft flesh there.

He positions himself and pushes in slowly.

The fullness of him at this angle is a different thing entirely and my hands grip the mattress and he goes all the way in and holds still, and I feel every part of it, and I hear him exhale.

Then he starts.

Short strokes to start, pulling back halfway and driving forward.

Again. Again. Again.

His hands grip my hips and pull me back each time he drives forward so I meet every stroke, and I feel all of it, the whole length of him moving in and out of me, my body rocking forward and being pulled back, forward and back, and I make a sound with every stroke and he keeps setting the same steady pace.

Five. Ten. His fingers are pressing hard enough into my hips that I'll feel them tomorrow.

He speeds up.

Fifteen strokes, twenty, the pace building incrementally, and the sounds in the room are different now, more urgent, his breathing and mine and the sound of the bed and the specific sound of him moving inside me, again and again and again.

He finds the angle that makes me say something that isn't quite a word and he locks onto it and goes back there, every stroke hitting that same place, twenty-five, thirty, and I've stopped caring about anything I sound like.

He speeds up again, harder now, the strokes shorter and deeper and he's gripping my hips and I can hear what it's doing to him in his breathing and he's driving into me with real intent and I'm pushing back onto him with each thrust and the headboard is making itself known and I'm gripping the pillow with both hands.

He pulls out.

He turns me over by my shoulder, flips me onto my back, drags me by my hips down to the very edge of the bed, and stands between my thighs and lifts my legs up and hooks them over his forearms.

He pushes into me again.

This angle is deep and direct and I can see his face and he can see mine and he keeps his eyes on my face when he starts to move.

Long slow strokes this time, pulling almost all the way back and driving fully forward, controlled and deliberate, and I feel every inch of the pullback and every inch of the drive in, and my breasts move with each one and his eyes track down to them and back to my face.