Page 34

"I decide," he says against my lips.

He kisses me again, harder, with his hand locked on my jaw so I can't lean in or pull back. His tongue strokes deep into my mouth, slow and steady, and I feel every stroke between my legs. I'm trembling all over and slick against the quilt, and my fingers dig into my own knees to keep my hands where he put them.

"Up," he says, and sits back.

I stand on unsteady legs. He rises with me, so close that my nipples brush his chest through my shirt, and the heat of his body comes right through the cotton.

His shirt comes off over his head and lands on the floor. His chest and shoulders are thick with muscle and marked with old scars, the same as his forearms.

Boots next. He kicks them off, and his belt buckle clinks as he opens it. He shoves his jeans and briefs down and steps out of them.

His cock juts up thick and hard from his body, flushed dark at the head, with a drop of wetness shining at the tip. I can't stop staring at it. My pussy clenches around nothing.

He sees where I'm looking. He wraps his fist around himself and strokes once, slow, from the base to the tip, with his eyes on my face the whole time.

He crosses to the nightstand, takes a condom from the drawer, tears the packet open with his teeth, and rolls it down his length as he comes back. He sits down in the chair again, naked in the lamplight, with his thighs spread and his cock standing hard against his belly.

"Come here. Straddle me. Feet on the floor."

The chair is low, and it has no arms to get in the way. I step over his legs and stand above his lap with one bare foot planted on each side of the chair and my knees bent. The hem of my shirt hangs down and brushes the head of his cock.

"Hands on the back of the chair."

I pull the cuffs of my sleeves down into my fists and reach past his shoulders to grip the top of the chair behind his head. My scabbed right knuckles pull tight, and I wince before I can hide it.

He sees it. "Right hand on my shoulder. Left hand on the chair. You hold on for balance. I carry your weight."

I move my right hand to his shoulder. His skin is hot and damp under my palm, and the muscle under it doesn't give at all. My face hangs right above his, close enough that his breath warms my lips.

"You don't move," he says. "I move you."

He slides his hands under my backside, well below my sore ribs. His palms are rough and big enough to take my whole weight. He lowers me until the blunt head of his cock presses against my opening, and he holds me there.

I'm so wet that he slips against me anyway. He doesn't push in. I strain down against his hands, and he doesn't give me an inch.

"Please," I whisper.

"You waited on that hay bale for years," he says. "You can wait for me."

He rocks me so the head of his cock slides up through my folds and nudges my clit, and back down. He does it again, slower. My thighs shake, and a whimper comes out of me.

He lowers me slowly. The head of his cock pushes into me and stretches me open, and I feel every thick inch of him sliding in until he's buried to the base and I'm sitting on his thighs. He fills me so full that I gasp against his mouth.

A twinge shoots through my ribs, and I wince. He stops dead.

"Ribs?"

"Fine."

He studies my face, deciding whether to believe me. Once he does, he lifts me by the hips until only the head of him is still inside me and lets me slide back down onto him.

He sets every bit of the pace with his hands. My feet stay planted, and his hands take most of my weight, so my ribs only ache when he pulls me down hard. He lifts me nearly off him and brings me back down slowly. Every stroke drags the ridge of his cock over a spot deep inside me that makes my thighs shake.

The wet sound of him moving inside me is loud in the quiet room. My face goes hot, and he watches it happen.

I want to grind down on him and ride him hard. His hands won't let me. I grip the chair rail until the wood creaks.

"Feel that?" he says, low. "That's me deciding how much you get."