Page 40 of The Wrong Guy
As I hold steady deep inside her, her pussy quivers, massaging my length with her hot, wet heaven. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”
I roll my hips the tiniest bit, staying buried as I thrust into her. She pushes me back, and I lay down on the blanket, letting her ride me. She braces herself on her knees with her hands on my chest, and I can feel the half-moon marks she’s making. I welcome them, want them, needing her to leave some trace that she’s deemed me worthy again, if only for a moment in time.
As she bucks her hips, impaling herself on my cock again and again, her breasts sway above me hypnotically. I grab them, kneading the flesh roughly, and Wren’s head falls forward, followed by her body going lax. She loses her rhythm, focusing on the pleasurable torture I’m giving her nipples—plucking, pinching, and then gently teasing the oversensitive nubs.
But that’s not what either of us wants. I let my hands drop lower, popping her ass sharply. “Keep going,” I command.
I help, though, slipping my hands beneath the fabric of her panties and spreading my fingers wide to hold each cheek in my punishing grip. I want to leave my mark, too, ten little reddened circles to remind her who owns her pussy. I guide her so that she’s slamming down, taking me in so deeply that I’m afraid I’m hurting her, but the echoing sounds that fill the night are full of her desire for more.
If that’s what she wants, I’ll give it to her. I lift my ass, giving her all I can as I buck up to meet her downstrokes. Together, we find a rhythm. “There you go, fuck yourself on my cock. Take whatever you need, it’s all yours. I’m yours.”
She cries out into the night, the moon and me the only witness to her coming again. I feel her juices dripping down over me, running over my balls as the pulses of her pussy massage my length.
“Please, Jesse. I want it, want you,” she gasps. “I want to feel you come inside me.”
Oh, fuck. We’ve had sex dozens of times, but that’s something we’ve never done. And I want that badly. I want to paint her insides with my cum, claim her from the inside out. Right now and forever.
I hold her hips tightly, not letting her move an inch and taking charge, though she’s above me. I chase my own orgasm, pumping into her. In response, I feel her inner muscles squeeze, milking me for it. I grunt as I explode, filling her with jet after jet of my hot cream.
Spent, I collapse to the blanket, holding Wren tightly against me to place a gentle kiss to her forehead. As the sun starts to lighten the sky to a faded purple, I wish we could lay here like this forever, but I know we’re both expected at work in a couple of hours. Life doesn’t stop because we’re figuring our shit out.
Taking a deep breath, I stroke her hair, asking playfully, “Wanna get breakfast?”
Wren looks up at me, one perfectly done brow arching sharply. “I can’t go walking around town in a T-shirt and bare feet.” She wiggles her toes, pointing toward the green shirt that’s lying in a heap on the edge of the blanket.
“Now who doesn’t want to be seen with who?” I tease, testing our comfort level.
She pushes at my chest, scolding me. “Shut up!” But she’s smiling.
“Where’d you get that shirt anyway? It’s like, ten sizes too big for you. And if it was some other guy, lie to me so I don’t have to kill anyone with my bare hands today. I’ve kinda got a death-wish list going and shouldn’t add to it until I mark someone off.”
Wren laughs, which is a good thing because it was a joke ... kinda. “Duh—it’s yours. I might’ve borrowed it from your place once upon a time, which is not stealing because I was only borrowing it and totally planned to give it back. Someday. Maybe.”
“That’s not my shirt. What do you mean you took it from my place?” I repeat, thoroughly lost. And then, with the rising sun, I can see the shirt more fully and recognize it. “This is Alan’s. He must’ve left it when he crashed on the couch. Have you been wearing this thinking it was mine?”
Oh, shit! What she said flashes across my mind.
“You sleep in this? Wear it when you touch yourself?” I grit out through clenched teeth.
Wren’s eyes go wide in horror and thankfully, she looks at the shirt with disgust. “Oh my God! That’s not yours?” She scrambles back like it’s a snake that might bite her, so I treat it as such.
Grabbing it between my thumb and index finger, I hold it out so it can’t attack either of us. “No! Bad shirt!” I tell it, copying the tone we use with Lester when he does something wrong. “Bad!”
With that, I fling it to the closest tree. To be clear, Hazel doesn’t do that to Lester, though he’d probably do better than the shirt, which lands high on a branch, getting stuck and waving like an unwanted flag.
Wren laughs at my silly antics, but then her jaw drops. “Oh no! What am I going to wear home? I can’t walk to my front door naked! I’m not looking to catch a public indecency charge. That’s a class-A misdemeanor in this state.”
“You can plea it down to a class B,” I tell her, waiting for the recognition to cross her face before I hold up my shirt. “Kidding—maybe. You can wear this. Though I admit it needs a good wash.” I sniff it, thankful that it’s not as bad as I feared after a day’s work. “Sorry about that.”
She doesn’t seem sorry in the slightest, pulling it over her head and wiggling it down over her body. She even presses it to her nose. “Smells like a sexy man who’s been working hard.”
“You pronounced hog sweat wrong,” I tease lightly, “but I’ll take it.”
“By the way, while we’re clearing some things up, I’ll need your tattoo artist’s name, phone number, and location.” She’s aiming for a casual, no-big-deal tone, but I know her too well, and now that I know she’s got a jealous streak as wide as mine, I can hear it loud and clear. I don’t know how I missed it before.
“Sure, his name’s Corpse. He’s over in Newport. Wyatt told me about him. You looking to get inked?”
“No, I—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Let me see.”