Chapter 20 Sorrel #2
The corded muscle of his thigh is hard against my bare pussy and oh god I can already feel how wet I am.
As I stared into his face, I notice his five o’clock shadow is darker today, and I wonder vaguely when he shaves. Probably when he sneaks down to that gym of his.
His cologne envelopes me, along with the raw smell that’s all him.
“Show me.” His voice drops lower. “Show me how you’d touch yourself when you’re alone.”
My entire face goes hot. “I can’t--”
“You can.” He looks at me with barely restrained need. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”
This is mortifying.
This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Both can be true simultaneously, apparently.
I start moving tentatively, rocking against his hard thigh. The friction is good but not quite enough and I’m super aware of his hungry gaze on me, and of how exposed I am.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his hands on my hips guiding the pace. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
So I do. I let my head fall back, let the embarrassment fade, let myself chase the pleasure building low in my belly.
His thigh is solid beneath me, the muscle flexing as I grind against him.
I reach down and start circling my clit.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans. “Soaking my leg.”
His words send a jolt straight through me. I rock harder, faster, chasing release.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”
And I do.
My fingers move faster, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with the rhythm I’ve perfected over years of stolen moments, those late nights in my twin bed, the thin apartment walls forcing me to be quiet, biting my lip to stifle the sounds so my roommates won’t hear.
But here, with him, there are no walls.
Just his ragged breathing and the wet sounds of my body moving against his thigh.
“Look at me,” he commands, and my eyes snap to his. Those blue eyes, sharp as ice, hot as flame, watch my face like I’m the most fascinating thing in the world. “I want to see every second of you falling apart.”
The blush burns down my neck, across my chest, but I can’t look away.
My hips have a mind of their own now, rolling and grinding against the unyielding muscle of his leg. Each rock drags my clit against the seam of my own fingers. As for my pussy itself, rubbing against his skin, the friction is maddening, perfect and not enough all at once.
“God, the way you move,” he growls, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. “Like you were made for this. Made for me.”
His words unspool something low in my belly. I’m dripping now. Can feel it slicking my folds, coating my fingers, soaking his leg.
The scent of my own arousal rises, mixing with his cologne and the woodsmoke, and it’s so primal I want to die of shame and lust at the same time.
I’m close. So fucking close.
My thoughts start fragmenting.
Yes.
More.
Please.
Fuck.
“Tell me,” he demands, his voice a dark velvet scrape. “Tell me what you need.”
“Harder,” I gasp, the word torn from me. “Need--need more--”
He shifts, just slightly, and the muscle of his thigh flexes, goes rigid as stone. “Ride me, Sorrel. Use me.”
That’s it. That’s--
My fingers become a blur on my clit, circling, pressing, rubbing. My hips buck wildly, shamelessly, chasing the crest.
I’m making weird noises now... little whimpers, breathless moans that echo in the cavernous great room.
I’m about to--
“Cum,” he orders. “Cum right fucking now.”
The orgasm hits like an avalanche. My back arches, my spine bowing, and I cry out wordlessly.
My pussy clenches around nothing, pulsing. A white-hot cascade of pleasure fills me, blinding and consuming.
For a second I forget my own name.
Forget everything but the perfection of his thigh between my legs and his hands holding me steady as I shatter.
Before I’ve even finished trembling, he’s flipping our positions. Suddenly my back is against the sectional seat and he’s above me, shoving his boxer briefs down and oh holy hell he’s huge.
I watch, mesmerized, as he tears open a condom wrapper with his teeth... where does he keep getting those... and rolls it down his thick length.
Then he’s positioning himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my clenching entrance.
“Ready?” he asks, even though he has to feel just how ready I am.
“God yes.”
He enters me slowly despite the restraint I can see coiling through his shoulders. As usual the stretch is intense... so fucking intense. I can feel every single inch of him pushing into my tight, wet heat.
My body yields, stretching around him, and it’s borderline pain but the best kind. The kind that makes my toes curl and my breath catch in my throat.
“Jesus,” he grits out. “You always feel so fucking perfect.”
When he’s fully seated, he pauses. Gives me a moment to adjust. I’m so completely and utterly full. I can feel him pulsing inside me, the thick ridge of his head pressed against that spot deep inside that makes my vision blur.
Then he starts moving, setting a deliberate rhythm designed to break me. Each thrust is measured, controlled, but the power behind it is undeniable. The sectional creaks beneath us. My breasts bounce frantically with every snap of his hips.
His hand slips between us, his fingers finding my clit, and--
Oh god I’m going to die.
The dual sensation is overwhelming... his cock stroking deep inside, his fingers circling my swollen, sensitive clit.
It’s too much.
It’s perfect.
It’s--
“Cum for me,” he commands. Not asks. Commands.
The orgasm hits like lightning, making me arch off the blankets. My pussy clamps down on him, trying to milk his length, and I’m screaming his name in time to every clench.
“Gregory Gregory Gregory!”
The pleasure is a violent, beautiful thing, tearing through me, turning my muscles to liquid fire.
But he doesn’t stop. Just keeps moving, keeps touching, keeps building me back up again. His fingers never leave my clit, his thumb now pressing directly on that aching bundle of nerves while his cock continues its relentless jackhammering pace.
“Again,” he orders. “I know you can.”
“I can’t--” But even as I protest, I can feel it crescendoing again. That impossible, terrifying, exquisite pressure twisting tighter.
His thumb circles my swollen clit with devastating precision. “You will.”
My thoughts are splintering.
Too much.
So good.
Fuck.
Gregory.
Please.
Yes yes yes!
Eeeeewoowowowwweeeeeeeeee!
The next orgasm crashes through me even harder than the first.
“GRE-GOR-REEEE!” I cry out, my internal muscles clenching around him rhythmically.
My vision whites out.
I can’t breathe.
Can’t think.
There’s only the brutal perfection of his body driving into mine and his fingers playing me like an instrument he owns.
But he’s still not done.
“One more,” he demands, his voice strained. “Give me one more, Sorrel.”
“Gregory--” My voice is broken, wrecked.
I’m wrecked.
Every nerve ending is raw, oversensitive, screaming.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks against my ear, his hips still pistoning relentlessly. The question is possessive and sinks into my very bones.
“You,” I gasp. The word is barely there. Just a breath, a whimper.
“Say it again.”
“Yours,” I pant. “I’m... yours.”
He’s grinning wickedly, his hair damp with sweat, those blue eyes burning with both triumph and hunger. “That’s right. Mine.”
The declaration combined with the relentless pounding sends me over the edge yet again.
This final orgasm is more intense.
Like every nerve ending in my body is firing all at once.
It starts deep in my core, a supernova of pleasure that explodes outward, radiating through my limbs, my fingertips, my toes.
Gregory.
Fuck.
Gregory.
Fuck.
GRE-GOR-REEEE.
I’m shaking, convulsing, my pussy gripping him in rhythmic waves that feel like they’ll never end.
I’m saying something... maybe his name, maybe nonsense, maybe prayers.
Finally I feel him shudder as his own control snaps. He buries himself deep, and follows me over with a groan that sounds like it’s been torn from his very core.
His cock throbs inside me, pulsing agonizingly, and I can feel the heat of his release even through the condom.
We collapse together on the sectional, both gasping and sweaty in the heat of the great hall.
After a moment, he withdraws and disposes of the condom.
Then he’s pulling me onto the floor, into our nest, and against his chest, wrapping us both in the blankets we’ve been sharing for days.
Wrapped in bliss, in him, I can’t help but smile in disbelief. How did I ever find this incredible man?
Still, as I stare at the light streaming in from outside, reality starts to sink back in.
That’s right.
The dish.
“I know that cougar is still out there, but we need to do the roof,” I eventually whisper against his skin. “While it’s still daylight. We don’t know how long it’s going to take.”
He reluctantly nods. “I know.”
But neither of us moves.
Not yet.
Because right now, wrapped in each other’s arms, we can pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. No roof, no rescue, no impossible complications.
And for just this moment, that’s enough.