Chapter 69 Levi #3
“Sit tight, city boy.” I roll my hips once, just to watch what it does to his face. I feel the head of his cock drag over that spot that makes my cock jump, and a rumble comes out of my chest before I can stop it. “Fuck… this ride’s mine.”
And then I quit teasing and I ride him.
Fast and dirty. I lift up until only the head of him is inside me, the stretch at the rim sharp and sweet, then drop my weight and take every thick inch in one hard drop. The sound of it is wet and loud in a room with no furniture to soak it up. Skin meeting skin.
Sweat comes up almost immediately, slick between my thighs and his stomach. I plant my hands on his chest and use the leverage, rolling my hips on every downward stroke so his cock grinds deep and then angles just right.
His hands are everywhere they can reach. Thighs, hips, dragging down my chest, thumbs brushing my nipples. Every time he tries to take the wheel, every time his hips surge up to meet me too hard, I ride him harder until he gives it back with a hissed curse.
“Eight seconds,” he grits out, “is the rodeo standard for bull riding—”
“What the fuck you know about bull riding, Miami? You’ll be lucky if this Tennessee cowboy lets you go in eight minutes.
” I grind down and stay there, full to the hilt, circling my hips so he can feel how tight I am around him.
“Feel that? That’s me owning every inch of you in our brand-new house.
You measured the windows. Now I’m measuring how deep you can go. ”
He reaches up for the hat and I knock his hand away without breaking stride.
“Hat stays on while I’m riding. House rule.
” He grips my thighs instead, hard enough to leave marks I’ll find tomorrow and grin about.
His fingers dig into the muscle, holding on while I bounce on his cock like I’ve got somewhere to be and he’s the only road that gets me there.
The angle comes right and the lightning starts running up my spine on every drop. That thick head of him drags over that spot again and again. He’s pushing up to meet me now and I’m letting him, the two of us hitting a rhythm.
Below me, Dante is losing it. His head is thrown back against the sleeping bag, black eyes locked on the place where his cock disappears inside me.
He’s cursing in two languages and not finishing a single sentence in either one. Spanish spills out of him in fragments — “Joder, Levi, así, justo así” — and then other words in English. “Look at you. Riding me like you were born for it. So fucking tight — Christ—”
I lean forward, bracing one hand beside his head so the hat brim shadows both our faces, and pick up the pace.
Harder. Faster. The stretch burns sweet now, every thrust punching the air out of my lungs.
My own cock is leaking steadily onto his stomach, the head dragging against his abs with every bounce.
“Levi.” His hand finds me, wraps tight around my shaft, and starts stroking in time with the rise and fall of my hips.
The sensation nearly buckles me. His fist is slick with my own precum and the leftover lube, the grip firm and perfect, thumb finding the slick head on every pass while his cock keeps hitting deep inside me.
“I’m not going to last — you feel too good—”
“Then don’t.” I bear down on him, and grind in hard little circles. The pressure against that spot inside me is constant now, building so fast my thighs start to shake. “Give it up, Dante. Right now. I want to feel it.”
He goes off inside me, his fingers dug into my hip hard enough to bruise.
The heat of him flooding me is sudden and intense.
Pulse after thick pulse, his cock throbbing hard inside me as he empties everything he’s got.
The feel of it and knowing he’s coming because I told him to rips my own orgasm right out of me.
I spill across his chest and his fist with a shout that echoes off every bare wall, cock jerking hard in his grip, while my ass clenches down around him in rhythmic waves that milk every last drop.
The hat miraculously stays on. My arms finally quit on me and I come down onto his chest, still full of him, and neither of us cares.
We lie there breathing like we hauled every moving box in here at a dead run.
The hat has finally surrendered, sitting crooked against his shoulder. He picks it up and puts it on his own head.
“I thought you were never a cowboy,” I say.
“I have guest privileges now.”
“You look like a man who lost a bet.”
He takes it off. Then he lies there staring at the ceiling for a while, his hand moving slow on my back.
“I am never going to be able to measure a window again without thinking of this,” he says.
“That was the general idea.”
He gets up on shaky legs, comes back with a washcloth, and cleans us both up, unhurried, thorough, same as ever. Then he picks up the pen and legal pad to cross something off the list.
“What’d you just cross off?”
“Break in the new house properly.”
“What? You’re lying. That was never on the list.”
“Yes, it was.”
He tilts the pad over for me to see it for myself.
He’d put it on the list.