Chapter 25 #2
“Not doing this ‘cause I feel like I have to, so you need to get that thought out of your head.” He uses one finger to move my panties aside.
Lowering his head, those sage eyes stay locked on mine as he delivers a soft kiss to my clit. “I’m doing this because I’ve needed to know how you taste since that first ride on my bike.” His tongue laps up my arousal. “I was right, you’re fucking delicious.”
Oh my God, is this really happening?
His callused fingers hook the lace of my panties, pausing, like he’s waiting for me to pull the plug. Fat chance. My hips buck, begging for more, and a low growl rumbles through his beard. “Are we needy, Butterfly?” he gives a teasing half-smirk.
I arch up, all in, and he yanks the lace down, tossing it to my hardwood floor. His tongue licks a searing trail up my thigh, hitting my center like he’s mapped it in his sleep.
He teases my clit with slow, wicked flicks. The touch of his beard against my sensitive skin is erotic in a way I never knew existed.
His mouth clamps down, sucking hard and relentlessly against my swollen bud. My back bows, and my hips buck up into him. I grind shamelessly against his face, riding out the euphoric feeling.
“What is it you need most right now?” He growls against my slick heat, beard scraping my tender thighs. “Because I could do this all night.” His scarred arm braces him as his tongue licks with calculated strikes.
“You—all of you,” I pant out in a whimper. “Please.”
His pupils dilate with primal lust at my words. We’re both lost to each other and to this moment. Despite the undeniable pull between us, he manages to keep his composure. Every move he makes is crafted for me.
To please me.
Judging by his rock-hard cock, he seems to be enjoying this as much as I am. But it’s as though my body’s desperate pleas fuel him, as if my ecstasy were his mission.
I’ve read things like this many times. The real, raw, filthy shit women crave enough to fill books. I never thought it would be, or even could be, a reality.
Now back on the bed with me, Sarge’s hands slide beneath my hips, tilting me just enough to align our bodies perfectly. His seeping cock rests against my entrance.
He leans down to capture my mouth with his as he enters me, slowly at first, giving my body time to adjust to his fullness. He moves in and out of me with controlled precision.
My legs splay open wide for him so he can fill me completely. I want him pounding into me so hard his balls slap against my ass. I crave being his means to get off. I want to be the source of his pleasure.
He holds his weight on his forearm while his hand cradles my face—anchoring me to him—while the other rests under my ass, gently lifting to inch himself in further.
The world shrinks to the heat of his skin and the way our bodies fit together.
Every touch is electric, every movement a silent conversation, and I lose myself in him, in the steady, sure glide of his body into mine.
The room fills with the sounds of ragged breathing, whimpers, and wet skin colliding. His speed picks up, and he pounds into me with a carnal need. The need to own me, to fill me, to consume me completely. My greedy pussy accepts every perfect inch of him, praying this never ends.
The angle he holds me at allows the flared rim of his cock to glide over my G-spot with every thrust, and I feel like I’m going to unravel. His control wavers as he drives harder into me.
My legs wrap around his lower back, and I pull my hips against him. Matching his rhythm beat for beat, urging him deeper. I can’t get enough.
“Baby, you feel so fucking good. You’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he growls, the sound sending a thrill through me.
Whether he knows it or not, his words are like a reward. A reminder that I’m his source of pleasure.
My nails dig into his back, pulling him closer as the tension builds, a wave that’s been gathering since his first touch. It’s overwhelming, consuming, and I don’t want it to stop.
Fully entwined, Sarge rolls us until I’m on top, straddling him. Needing to be as close as possible, I lean forward and slide along his length, chest to chest.
Instead of keeping up his pace, I choose this moment to ride him slowly and intentionally. I rock my hips gently, moving just enough to tease.
I pepper kisses across his face until I reach his mouth. His lips land on mine, gentle and warm. Both of his hands rise to cup my face, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs.
My body opens to him in this new position. My insides are relaxing and softening, taking him in. I smile against his mouth because this feels so fucking good, and because he makes me so happy.
My hips drag my opening along his shaft, a slow, torturous slide before I drop down hard, fully impaling myself on him.
God, he fills me so perfectly. Riding that fine line between pleasure and pain, and I want more.
Unable to continue my slow rhythm any longer, I begin bouncing up and down on him at a quick pace. Our mouths stay locked together, tongues lapping against each other. He’s seated so deep inside me, it feels like our bodies are fused.
As I sit up on him, a wave of rapture washes over me, forcing my mouth to fall open in a silent cry. I brace myself on his thighs behind my ass and buck my hips forward and back. Opening my knees as wide as they can go, I show him just how much I need to be full of him.
This position allows my clit to rub mercilessly against his pubic bone, and it won’t take much for me to come undone.
Between pants, I manage to find the words, “Sarge, fuck. Yes, fuck my pussy.”
Sarge’s hand collars my throat, and he applies pressure. Reminding me that I may be on top, but I’m at his mercy. Holding me in place by my throat, his hips buck into me with abandon.
I’m so close, but I want him to cum first. I need that assurance. I’m not accustomed to having the time to worry about a man’s pleasure; I’m too busy racing to get mine before they roll over and check out.
But this is different. He’s wired into my responses, needing my release as much as his own.
Because of that, I crave his undoing.
His fingers dig into my hips, guiding me, grinding my clit against his core with every movement. I’m so full of him, his cock buried so fucking deep, and my body swallowing every inch.
He sits up enough for his mouth to find my nipple, nibbling and sucking playfully, and I can’t hold out any longer.
My breath quickens, “Sarge, fuck, I’m gonna—”
He pops off my breast just enough to reward me. “Good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire against my skin, teeth grazing my nipple. “Cum all over me.” He commands.
I cry out in a half-scream, half-moan as my whole body goes rigid.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you cum on my cock,” His filthy words come out hoarse as he fights his own release.
My walls pulse and tighten, my loud cry stopped short as the intensity of my orgasm steals my breath away. I gasp for air once I slightly recover, just as the roll of the next wave hits.
Sarge thrusts hard, pulling our bodies securely together, and groans out beneath me as I milk his release from him. His orgasm heightens my pleasure like a reward.
Our climaxes crash together in a shared, shuddering wave. Falling forward on him, he wraps his arms firmly around my back, as I pull every drop of his cum deep into my core.
I ride out my orgasm, my breath hitching, hips still bucking in the last final waves of bliss. He kisses my face gently, his lips soft against my skin, and rubs soothing circles across my back. His soft and gentle touch tells me I’ve done well, and now it’s time to relax and rest.
He kisses my temple, forehead, cheeks, and nose before landing on my mouth in a slow, soft kiss.
For the first time in years, I feel completely safe. Peaceful. Like the weight of the world and every bill I’ve paid alone, every plan I’ve made to brace for disaster, every moment I’ve spent watching my own back—has lifted.
With Sarge, I’m not just surviving. I’m seen. Heard. Cared for.
His presence is a quiet strength, a promise that I don’t have to carry it all by myself anymore.
I feel whole.
I feel protected.
I feel so fucking vulnerable.
Before I can process it, tears spill down my cheeks.
I can’t stop them, and I don’t even know where they’re coming from.
They’re not sadness, not exactly—just an overflow of everything I’ve held in for so long, spilling out in the safety of his arms.
This is not the definition of sexy.