Chapter 8 Sweet Valentine’s Rodeo #2
I double my efforts—faster, sloppier, until his hips buck once, twice. He comes with a guttural groan, hot pulses flooding my mouth. I swallow greedily, milking every drop, then pull off with a wet pop.
Sitting back on my heels, I open my mouth—showing him the evidence—before swallowing deliberately. His eyes go molten, chest heaving.
"So," I say, voice husky and playful, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. "Should we start the rodeo? It'll be a trial."
I wink, confidence blazing bright.
He grins—wide, wicked, utterly undone yet utterly in control.
"Ride me up, Sugar."
The words hang between us like a dare wrapped in velvet, Tank's voice a low rumble that vibrates through the mattress and straight into my bones.
His mocha brown eyes gleam with that predatory patience, the kind that says he's content to let me steer—for now—but the beast beneath is coiled, ready to unleash.
I feel it in the subtle flex of his thighs under mine, the way his inked chest rises and falls in measured breaths, tattoos shifting like shadows over muscle forged in fire.
I shift forward, knees sinking deeper into the charcoal sheets that pool around us like midnight silk.
The bed's sheer black curtains sway gently from our earlier tussle, filtering the amber lamplight into soft, golden shards that dance across his skin.
Snowflakes twirl beyond the frost-laced windows, a silent ballet against the inky night, but in here, the world narrows to this: the heat of his body, the addictive pull of his gaze, and the promise of unraveling control.
My hands brace on his chest, palms flat against the warm ridges of his abs, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat echo mine.
I lift my hips, positioning myself over his thick length, the tip brushing my slick entrance in a tease that sends sparks skittering up my spine.
No rush. Not yet. I want to savor this, draw it out until the air crackles with need.
Slowly, deliberately, I sink down.
The stretch is exquisite—a burn that borders on divine, filling me inch by inch until I'm seated fully, his girth pressing against every sensitive wall.
A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as my body adjusts, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses.
His eyes flutter shut for a split second, jaw tightening, but he doesn't move.
Doesn't thrust up. Just lets me take what I want.
Good Alpha. Let me lead this dance…
I start slow, rolling my hips in languid circles, grinding down to feel him hit that perfect spot deep inside.
The friction builds like a storm gathering on the horizon, each movement sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.
My breasts bounce lightly with the rhythm, nipples pebbled in the cool air of the room, and I watch his face—those brown eyes locked on where we're joined, darkening with every swivel.
Scents explode around us, thickening the atmosphere until it's almost tangible, a heady fog that clings to our skin and seeps into every breath.
My cinnamon sugar sharpens, caramelizing under the heat of arousal, roasted coffee beans turning bold and bitter-sweet, dark vanilla melting into a syrupy haze.
It spikes with each grind, blooming outward like steam from a fresh pour-over.
Tank's aroma answers in kind—smoked leather deepening to charred hide, saffron flaring hot and exotic, amber resin crackling with possessive fire.
They clash and merge, weaving into something new: a dizzying elixir of spice and smoke, sweet and savage, filling the room until my head swims, vision blurring at the edges.
It's overwhelming, this blend—our signatures tangling like vines in a forgotten garden, pulling us closer, binding us tighter. Every inhale drags me deeper into the haze, my omega purring with primal satisfaction.
I pick up my pace, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, hands sliding up to grip his shoulders for leverage. His muscles bunch under my fingers, veins standing out like rivers on a map, but still, he holds back, letting me set the tempo.
Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and I lean forward to lick it away—salty, mingled with his essence, a flavor that makes me clench harder around him.
"Feel that?" I whisper, voice breathy but laced with triumph, grinding down slow and deep. "That's me owning this ride."
He growls low, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine, but his hands stay laced behind his head, elbows flared like wings.
"Take it all, Sweetness. Milk me dry."
The words fuel me, heat pooling low as I ride him harder, hips snapping with purpose.
Pleasure coils tight in my core, building toward that sweet edge, but I focus on him—on the way his breath hitches, abs contracting, cock throbbing inside me.
His knot begins to swell at the base, a subtle pressure that promises to lock us if I let it.
Not yet. I want more from him first.
As his climax crests, I feel it—the hot rush as he spills deep, growling through clenched teeth, body arching beneath me. I lift my hips just in time, sliding off as his knot inflates fully, thick and insistent. Slick coats my thighs, his release mixing with mine in a messy, glorious slide.
Before he can catch his breath, I wrap my hand around the base, fingers encircling the swollen knot as best I can. It's hot, pulsing, and I massage it firmly—kneading with my thumb, stroking along the length in firm pulls. His eyes snap wide, a hiss escaping as his body jerks.
"Fuck—" he rasps, but I don't stop.
Leaning down, I take the knot into my mouth—or as much as fits—sucking gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive swell.
The taste is pure him: salty musk laced with that saffron bite, amber sweetness lingering on my palate.
I hum around it, vibrations adding to the torment, massaging with one hand while the other traces patterns on his inner thigh.
He shatters again, unexpectedly, a second climax ripping through him like thunder.
His growl turns possessive, raw—a sound that echoes off the wooden beams overhead, shaking the curtains. Hot spurts hit my tongue, and I swallow greedily, milking every tremor until he's spent, body slumping back against the pillows.
When I pull away, licking my lips, he's staring at me like I've rewritten the laws of physics. Breathless, chest heaving, eyes wide with a mix of awe and disbelief. Snow continues its lazy whirl outside, a stark contrast to the storm we've unleashed in here.
I smirk, wiping my chin with the back of my hand, pride swelling in my chest like a well-earned victory.
That's right. Underestimate the quiet omega at your peril.
"How was the trial?" I ask, voice playful, arched brow daring him to downplay it.
He exhales a shaky laugh, running a hand over his face. "You're a sweet vixen in these streets, aren't you?"
The phrase catches me off guard, and I burst into laughter—genuine, bubbling up from my belly until my sides ache.
"Vixen in the streets? Wish I was out there causing chaos, but honestly? I haven't fucked anything that wasn't battery-operated in months. Thrilled my skills haven't rusted over."
He props himself up on one elbow, core muscles flexing in a display of raw strength that makes my mouth water all over again.
The lamplight catches the sheen of sweat on his abs, highlighting every ridge, every scar woven into his ink.
No strain, no grunt—just fluid power as he sits fully, reaching for me.
His hands cup my cheeks, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with surprising tenderness for such a massive man. Then he kisses me—hard, consuming, tongue delving deep to claim what I've just teased. I moan into his mouth, melting against him, the taste of us mingling on our lips.
He breaks away just enough to whisper against my skin, breath hot on my ear.
"My turn to fuck you like you're my whole damn world."
A grin splits my face, bold and unapologetic.
Challenge accepted, but let's see if you deliver.
"Big words, Alpha. Think you can live up to them?"
The growl that rumbles from his throat is pure instinct, vibrating through me like a bass line.
In a blur of motion—faster than any man his size has a right to be—he surges forward, flipping our positions.
One second I'm astride him; the next, I'm on my back, pinned beneath his weight, the mattress dipping under us.
The sheer curtains billow from the shift, amber light flickering like candle flames.
Anticipation thrums in my veins, a grin stretching my lips as he looms over me, eyes storm-dark with promise. He smothers me with kisses—lips crashing against mine, then trailing to my jaw, my throat—while his hands roam lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of my thong.
"Wait—" I gasp, half-laughing as he tugs. "Don't rip them. They're designer. Cost a fortune to block scents like that."
He pauses, lips hovering over my collarbone, and shoots me a wicked look.
Then, deliberately, he breaks the kiss, trailing his tongue down my body in a slow, scorching path. Over my sternum, between my breasts—pausing to swirl around one nipple, then the other—down the plane of my stomach, leaving a trail of fire that has me shivering, arching off the bed.
His eyes never leave mine, holding my gaze with that intense, unblinking focus. It's intimate, vulnerable, like he's memorizing every gasp, every tremble. When he reaches my hips, he grips the thong's fabric—delicate lace from La Perla, black as sin—and tugs sharply.
The material shreds with a rip that echoes in the quiet room, splitting into two useless halves. Cool air hits my exposed core, and I gawk at him, mouth agape in mock horror.
"You did not just—"
"La Perla," he says, voice smug as he dangles the remnants. "Signature lace weave. I'll buy you every fucking color they make. Twice over."
The casual precision—the fact that he knows the brand, that he's promising replacement without a second thought—sends a fresh gush of slick rushing from me.
It's acts of service like this: thoughtful, dominant, wrapped in care.
My body responds before my mind catches up, arousal spiking sharp and sweet.
He notices.
His nostrils flare, inhaling deeply, and pride lights his features like dawn breaking. "Look at you, soaking for me. Guess acts of service get you dripping, huh? Let me show you I'm not the only one with a talented tongue."
Before I can quip back, he dives in—shoulders wedging my thighs apart, mouth sealing over my clit with devastating precision. No tentative licks, no buildup. Just hot, wet suction that has me crying out, hands fisting the sheets.
His tongue works in expert patterns: circling, flicking, pressing flat to lap at my entrance before returning to that sensitive bundle.
Scents surge anew—my cinnamon vanilla spiking to molten levels, his leather amber enveloping us in a cocoon that's almost suffocating in its intensity.
The room spins, dizzy with our blended aroma, like walking into a spice market after a bonfire: warm, heady, inescapable.
I buck against his face, one hand tangling in his short dark hair, pulling him closer.
He growls approval into my flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through me.
Fingers join the assault—two thick digits sliding inside, curling to hit that spot with unerring accuracy while his thumb circles my clit.
Pleasure builds fast, a tidal wave cresting higher with each stroke.
My internal monologue fractures into fragments:
Yes, right there—don't stop—fuck, he's good at this—
I bite my lip, holding back the words, letting my body speak instead.
He reads me perfectly, pace relentless, until I'm teetering on the edge. Then he sucks hard, fingers thrusting deep, and I shatter—back arching, a keening moan ripping from my throat as ecstasy crashes over me in waves. He works me through it, lapping every drop, until I'm boneless, trembling.
Pulling back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like a conqueror.
"Taste like heaven, Sweetness. Cinnamon and sin."
I laugh breathlessly, propping up on elbows.
"Not bad for a trial run. But if you're aiming for world-fucking status, you'll need to up your game."
His eyes narrow playfully.
"Oh, we're just getting started."
He crawls up my body, settling between my legs, cock hard again and nudging my entrance. But instead of thrusting in, he pauses—teasing the tip along my folds, coating himself in my slick.
"Tell me what you want next. Bossy omegas get rewards."
The banter sparks something light in my chest, cozy amid the heat.
"Want you deep. Slow at first, then wreck me."
"Done." He slides in inch by torturous inch, filling me completely, and we both groan at the union. Scents peak again—dizzying, all-consuming—his knot teasing but not locking yet.
He sets a rhythm: deep, measured thrusts that build tension like a coiled spring.
My nails dig into his back, tracing tattoos, urging him on. The bed creaks softly now, posts standing sentinel as snow piles silently outside, blanketing the world in white hush.
Internal thoughts whirl: This feels like home, somehow. Safe. Wild.
But I push them aside, focusing on the now—the slap of skin, his grunts, my gasps.
As pace quickens, he hooks one leg over his shoulder, angle deepening until stars burst behind my eyelids.
"Come for me again," he commands, thumb finding my clit.
I do—clenching around him, pulling him over the edge too. His knot swells, but he pulls out just before locking, spilling hot across my stomach with a possessive growl.
We collapse in a tangle, breaths mingling, scents a permanent haze. He grabs a warm cloth from the bedside—acts of service again—and cleans me gently, then pulls me into his chest.
"World fucked?" he murmurs, lips brushing my forehead.
I snuggle closer, smirking. "Close. But practice makes perfect."
His chuckle rumbles through me, cozy as a fireside chat.
"Deal, Vixen."
And just like that, in this snow-kissed sanctuary, I feel the shell crack a little more—boldness blooming in the warmth of his arms.
The night stretches on, a tapestry of touches and whispers, but as dawn creeps near, darker threads weave in. Memories of why I'm running—family threats, forced bonds—flicker like shadows on the wall. Tank's protective aura chases them away, for now.
But I know: this fling might be more.
Dangerous, indeed.
Still, wrapped in his scent, I drift—fearless in this moment, go-getter heart beating steady.