26. Wild Loving Nesting Part Two #4
His hand slides up, fingertips digging into my hip to hold me impaled on him, and with the other he never stops playing me, coaxing me, demanding I give him everything.
“You can do it,” he urges, tone low and dangerous, but so goddamn proud.
“I know you want to. Show me what you sound like when I make you come.”
It’s the unsparing, relentless rhythm of his hips, the precision of his fingers circling my clit, the weight of his body pinning me down like I’m already conquered and he’s just claiming the spoils. I try to breathe but all that comes out is a sob; it’s too much, I can’t, I need?—
But I do. I shatter so hard my knees give out and I’d have collapsed if not for his iron grip on my waist and the truck holding me up.
My orgasm roars through me like a flash flood, tearing loose a wail so loud I think the coyotes on the ridge will answer.
I scream his name, I scream for God, I scream for nothing at all, just the sheer animal joy of being wrecked by someone who knows exactly what I need.
He doesn’t let up, doesn’t even slow down.
Instead, he fucks me right through it—riding every aftershock, grinding into me until I’m begging, until I’m incoherent.
My body goes limp, legs shaking violently, but he’s still there, murmuring how beautiful I am, how good I taste, how he could do this all night and never get tired of me.
Somewhere in the haze I feel his lips on my neck, teeth scraping just enough to leave heat without breaking skin, and then his hand at my throat again, holding me steady as he fucks me deeper.
Even as I sob and tremble and try to pull away, he chases me, not letting me hide from the white-hot pleasure or the rawness of what’s been unlocked.
It’s the possessive praise that does it. My orgasm crashes over me like a thunderstorm, and I do scream—his name, God's name, wordless sounds of pleasure that echo off the empty hills. He fucks me through it, drawing it out until I'm shaking, oversensitive and desperate.
"Where?" he grits out, and I understand what he's asking.
"Inside," I gasp. "Want to feel you?—"
I want to be filled with hit hot cum, to experience what its like. I realize I probably won’t get what I want because he’s wearing a condom, but the idea that he even asked to give me a mere option turns me on even more.
He comes with a roar that probably scares the wildlife, hips stuttering as he empties himself into the condom. I feel every pulse, every shudder, and it triggers another mini-orgasm that has me whimpering against the truck's hood.
We stay like that for a moment, both panting, bodies still joined. Then he carefully pulls out, steadying me when my legs threaten to give out.
The sound of the condom being dealt with barely registers through my post-orgasmic haze; all I’m aware of is the abrasive thud of my heartbeat in my ears and the riot of sensation still winding through my body.
My knees feel like overcooked noodles, and my arms tremble as if they’ve been holding up the truck instead of the other way around.
The night air should be cold enough to sober me, but my entire spine is molten, liquefied by what just happened.
I barely have time to catch my breath before Austin’s hand finds my left thigh, squeezing and massaging gently like he already knows my bones are seconds from just giving up.
He pulls me upright, pinning my back to his chest, the aftershocks of his last thrust still rolling through my hips.
I let my head fall back against his shoulder, let him support my weight, let myself just be held for a split, perfect moment.
I almost want to cry from how safe and anchored he makes me feel.
Like he’s not just holding me to keep me upright, but to tether me back to this earth when I’m half sure I just died and came back.
His mouth is at my ear before I can even try to compose myself, his voice a rough, needy scrape against my shell: “Please tell me you can handle one more.”
My laugh is closer to a sob, the kind of jagged, breathless sound that says yes, I need it, I need you to ruin me again even if it splits me in two.
“Splattered against the truck?” I tease, and I can feel the answering shudder run through all the thick muscle pressed against my back.
His hands are already moving, greedy and reverent at the same time, sliding up over my belly to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make my thighs squeeze together.
But there’s no time to brace, no hesitation left in either of us.
With one swift motion, Austin lifts me so that my toes dangle, my thighs parted around his hips, and sets me on the edge of the truck bed.
The metal bites at my skin, making me gasp, but that pain just sharpens everything else.
I can feel slickness dripping down my inner thighs, pooling beneath me, and I’m so humiliation-drunk on it I could scream.
He groans at the mess, his hands spanning my hips, thumbs digging in to anchor me in place.
“You’re amazing,” he says, and the awe in his voice is indistinguishable from hunger. “I could watch you come apart a thousand times and never get tired of it.”
His hands spread my thighs even wider, and before I know what’s happening, he’s on his knees in the dust, mouth latching onto my pussy like he’s starved for weeks.
The shock of his tongue, hot and relentless, tears a scream out of me so raw I’m half afraid I’ve severed my own voice box.
It’s pure worship, pure fucking devotion—he eats me out with the intense focus of a man memorizing every detail for the rest of his life.
Every flick, every suck, every hum against my clit is engineered to devastate me completely.
My heels drum uncontrollably against the truck, my fingers clawing at the roof for purchase.
He doesn’t stop when I come. If anything, he doubles down, flattening his tongue and circling my most sensitive nerves in a merciless, never-ending rhythm that turns my post-orgasmic sensitivity into something close to agony.
I sob, I plead, I babble his name until the syllables lose all meaning, but he just holds me open and keeps going.
Another orgasm wracks me, leaving me boneless and shivering, a marionette with all the strings cut.
Finally, when I’m half-delirious and only distantly aware of my surroundings, he stands and kisses me.
I taste myself on his lips, earthy and primal, and I chase the flavor with my tongue, clinging to his shoulders for dear life.
We’re both wild-eyed and panting, the quiet between us charged with something electric and dangerous.
He lines himself up again, this time not waiting for preamble or permission.
The head of his cock is slick and insistent, and I try to remember how to breathe as he pushes inside.
There’s no gentleness at first—just the animal, desperate drive to get as deep as possible, as if he wants to fuse our bodies together on a molecular level.
My nails dig into his back, my legs wrap tight around his waist, and we move in a raw, frantic rhythm that leaves the world reduced to our points of contact: the burn where he stretches me, the bruising grip of his hands, the velvet grind of his mouth biting at my shoulder.
This time, it’s different. Not just rough, but fast. An unyielding, pounding tempo that shakes the truck and rattles the windows, that makes me forget there’s ever been anything but this—him, me, the endless night, the creak of the springs, the slap of skin on skin.
I’m almost delirious when I hear myself start to cry again, but they’re not tears of pain or fear.
They’re the kind of tears you get when you’re finally allowed to want what you want, when it’s given to you and then some.
He sees it too, cupping my face with one hand, thumb swiping at the wetness, and that’s what finally slows him down.
He buries his forehead against mine and rocks into me with a gentler, deeper stroke.
She can feel his swollen knot, and how he groans against her flesh.
I bet it’s painful for him to not just slide it in, but with their outdoor situation, it woudn’t be wise to knot there.
She can get a bit of clarity despite her body’s desperate need to be filled with his knot properly and fucked senseless.
For a moment she’s almost tempted to let it happen.
To feel him knot her, have him rut against her until they’re both delirious and senseless beneath the Arizona stars.
But she knows the logistics are a nonstarter—the outdoor gravel, the risk of being stuck together for half an hour in public, the imminent threat of cactus needles in unmentionable places—and she’s grateful he’s the one with enough sense to hold back.
That doesn’t mean she can’t help him, though.
She wants him to have relief, to feel good, to finish the way he needs to.
The need to take care of him is just as strong as everything clawing for release in her own veins.
So she shifts her hips back, giving him a little more room, and reaches down between their bodies, feeling for the place where his cock is thickest and hottest and most desperate.
Her fingers close around his shaft and she can feel the literal heartbeat of him, frantic and barely leashed.
The knot is swollen so tight it’s almost inhuman, and she squeezes just enough to give him the sensation of being locked in, even if it’s just a mimicry of the real thing.
His reaction is instantaneous: he groans into her shoulder, every muscle in his body going rigid.
She strokes up to the rim of the knot, milking him, and he thrusts forward so sharply that the truck’s suspension groans in sympathy.
A small, wicked part of her wants to tease him for it.
To ask if this is what all the fuss was about, if he’s always this easy to ruin, but the reality is way more intoxicating than any fantasy.
He’s letting her handle him, trusting her with the most vulnerable, animal part of himself, and the power rush is second only to the relentless, shuddering pleasure still echoing through her own body.
Her fingers slick with a mix of their fluids, she massages the knot, coaxing it, watching as the tension in his shoulders goes from dangerous to electrified.
He’s panting her name now, no shame or control left. Just need. “Willa, please—I can’t, I need?—”
“I know,” she soothes, voice shredded and raw but still hers.
She curves her palm around the base of his cock, nails grazing his skin, and it’s enough to undo him.
His hips snap forward, and his whole body bows over hers as he comes, the sound ripped from his chest so guttural and vulnerable she knows she’ll be replaying it in her memory for weeks.
They stay that way for a few long moments, her body draped over the cooling hood, his weight anchoring her in place, both of them too wrung out to even speak. Gradually, he softens, and she feels him slump against her, arms circling her waist with something that feels suspiciously like gratitude.
She reaches behind again, catching his shaft and strokes down to his knot, making him groan in relief at her touch as he pressed into her further so she can begin massaging his knot, easing that pang of need that’s probably driving his Alpha instincts insane.
She doesn’t know how long either of them stay like that, but his deep sigh is matched with the release of tension in his shoulders, telling her his knot is satisfied enough.
At least for now.
It makes her stomach coil with anticipation at the idea of her potentially getting to knot each of them.
"You okay?" he asks, turning me around to cup my face, studying me with concern that makes my chest tight.
"More than okay," I assure him, leaning up to kiss him soft and slow. "That was..."
"Yeah," he agrees against my lips, not needing me to finish. "It was."
He helps me straighten my dress, smoothing it down with gentle hands that contrast sharply with how roughly he just took me.
The dichotomy makes me shiver—this man who can dance with childlike joy, fuck with animalistic intensity, and then tend to me with infinite care.
"We should probably figure out how to get home," I say eventually, though I make no move to leave the circle of his arms.
"Probably," he agrees, but he's smiling. "Or we could stay here a little longer. See if any of those wishes you made on the stars come true."
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years.
"I think one just did."