Chapter 42 Contracts #3
He’s always been the one with the miracle refractory period, but my dick is currently taking a run at the title.
When he pulls his fingers from my mouth, I drop my head on his shoulder, and when he thrusts those fingers inside me, I grind my ass against his hand.
The sun sifts through the windshield, warming my already heated skin and painting the inside of my fluttering eyelids red.
“Spit,” he commands, releasing my throat to bring his palm in front of my face.
I comply, half dazed, and he licks a line up my neck before leaning forward to add his own saliva to his hand.
Seconds later, the unmistakable music of him stroking himself reaches my ears, accompanied by the sporadic brush of knuckles against my inner thigh.
“Yes,” I rasp, folding over the seat to brace my elbows on the center console. “Give me that cock.”
His fingers continue to work inside me, spreading cum and spit along my inner walls and teasing my prostate, but I’m past the point of patience.
“Enough, Quill. I already know you love me. Take me like you own me. Fuck me like a god.”
He answers by gripping my shoulder and pulling his fingers free to plunge his cock through all my barriers with one sure thrust. My vision whites out at the abrupt shift from full to empty to holy shit, and I fall the fuck apart.
This is only the third time I’ve had him inside me like this, and every time, it’s like relearning how to breathe.
I struggle through the burn, chasing the moment when too much becomes oh god becomes notenoughpleasefuckpleasegivememore.
He drapes his chest over my back, waiting for me to adjust, and strokes a hand down my side.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, breath wicked in the short hairs along my nape. “Relax.”
I don’t want to relax. I want to fuck myself bloody on his cock and damn the consequences. But when I shift my hips, gritting my teeth against the rough drag, he wraps his arm around my chest and traps me against him.
“Surrender, Rocket. I promise I’m gonna give you everything you need.” The words ricochet as he sucks my pulse between his teeth, and all the fight drains out of me, some final piece—peace—slipping into place.
I am safe with him, for the first time since he walked his bicycle into my backyard.
How long has it been since I was unafraid?
I arch into him, one hand flying to cup the back of his neck as the other clutches his ass, letting him lead us in an undulating, underwater dance. His decadently curved cock is carving out places inside me that have never been touched, making them his own.
My second climax builds in slow increments, a thing of tides and gravity. It waxes like an ache, and then an awakening, until my cock erupts untouched, and everything dissolves but him.
“I own you, Rocket,” he whispers, then bites down on my shoulder, snapping his hips sharply now, the architect of my undoing.
I’m fluttering on the far edge of euphoria by the time he unloads—each pulse of his cock in my ass a bass-beat against my clenching walls.
Hot cum floods my core as I collapse, and he rides me through the comedown with long, dragging strokes, planting kisses along my sweat-soaked spine. “And you own me too.”
A contract written on our souls.
He uses my fallen shirt to clean us up, tossing it in the back seat when he’s finished before climbing up to straddle my lap.
The seat is too small for the both of us, and the steering wheel must be digging into his back, but he strokes his hands through my hair with the softest expression on his face, and I wrap my arms around his waist, content.
“I’m not sure I can drive,” I admit.
He chuckles, a satisfied, masculine sound. “You can be my passenger princess. Just give me a few.”
“You can have as many as you want.”
The next kiss is languid—a leisurely swirl of soft lips and silken tongue and breathing stripped of urgency or fear of loss.
I could float away on kisses like these.
And for a while, we do.
Eventually, we disentangle. I lean against the truck with my eyes closed and my face tipped to the sky, while he digs two T-shirts from his duffle. When I pull the one he offers me over my head, his scent envelops me—more than a decade of loving him stitched into faded cotton and worn seams.
My ass aches pleasantly as I lower myself into the passenger seat, and he tosses me a knowing look before shifting into gear.
“Need a pillow? There’s one in my bag.”
“Fuck off,” I say without malice. “I wanted to feel you for the rest of the day, remember? I’m not gonna start bitching because you gave me exactly what I asked for.”
“I just meant you’re not a pro at taking dick the way I am. No shame in needing a little extra aftercare.”
“Maybe if you weren’t such a dick glutton, I’d have more chances to practice.”
“Pretty sure you were the dick glutton. I was the dick whore.”
“If the butt plug fits…”
We both dissolve into giggles.
“You know,” he says, growing serious as we pull back onto the highway. “You are allowed to bitch sometimes. I might not want to be a therapist, but I’m here if you need someone to help carry your shit. I told you I’m ready to hold up my end, whenever you need a break from being the hero.”
“I like being your hero. And you know you’ve always been mine.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time. You can fuck up or be selfish or let yourself be carried when life gets heavy. You’re the one who taught me those things don’t make you unworthy of love.”
I stare at his profile, my heart suddenly too big for my chest.
“I’m an addict,” he continues, catching my eye with a wry twist of his lips.
“I’ll be dealing with that for the rest of my life, but I’m done letting it define me.
I can be other things too—a hot-as-fuck pole dancer, a circus director, a cat dad.
And I plan to be a damn good boyfriend. Maybe even a husband someday. ”
“Are you proposing to me, Quill?” The words come out breathless.
He scoffs. “Not yet. I’m afraid you’ll kill me if I don’t give you the chance to do it first. I bet you’ve been planning it since ninth grade.”
“I may have a Pinterest board or two.”
“Venues or flower arrangements?”
“Mostly rings,” I admit. “I went through a brushed platinum phase.”
“Rings? Fuck no. We’re getting tattoos.” He reaches across to circle his thumb between my knuckles. “Right here.”
“Why no rings?” I ask, bemused. “Too cheesy for a biker bad boy, or because they aren’t practical on the pole?”
“Because I’m not marking our marriage with something that comes off. You’re stuck with me forever.”
I lace my fingers with his. “I’m good with forever.”
“You better be.” His smile is still staggering. “I’m giving you your happy ending, Rocket, and it starts right now.”