Chapter Seven Margot #2
Every time I think Dean can’t get any hotter, he does something to prove me wrong.
Like now, when he falls backward, his sweaty chest rising and falling in an erotic dance of shadows while he digs into his pocket, taking out his wallet.
A condom. “Go ahead, then. Take out my cock if you need it so bad.” He rips the condom foil open with his teeth.
“You can’t need it half as bad as I need that wet pussy. ”
I make a sound through my teeth, my fingers clumsy on his zipper.
I have to focus to get the metal teeth down and over the bulge—and that’s where my focus dies.
RIP. Because there’s Dean, long and thick in my hands.
I’m stroking him instinctively while he moans, his head back, his neck tendons straining.
I’ve never put a condom on before, but I’ve seen it demonstrated online, plus once on a banana courtesy of some drunk friends.
But all I want in this life is to get Dean inside of me, so I take the halo from his fingers and roll the thin layer of latex down his shaft, whimpering when he reaches out to help me, the sight of his hand on his own dick brutally hot.
Protection in place, Dean jackknifes and consumes my mouth, his hands on my ass, urging me higher on my knees, giving us just enough room, just enough to press the head into my entrance and sink deep.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, he fills me so deep, and I gasp his name into the crook of his neck, nothing to compare this to.
This feeling of total connection with him, his body, my body.
There’s only the smallest idea of pain, but it’s devoured by his mouth on mine, his intense focus on me, the realization that I am having sex with Dean.
That his want for me is so real, I can feel it buried between my legs.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, breaking the kiss to scrutinize me with concern. “Babe, you’re so tight.”
“I love it. I love it. No, it doesn’t hurt.” I scoot as much as humanly possible in his lap, burying my heels into the area rug behind him to drag myself closer, his shaft deeper, biting his shoulder when he groans a shaky curse, his abs hollowing violently against mine.
“Margot. Jesus Christ.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good. Good. So good. Move, please, if you can. Just move . . .” That last word ends on a moan when I stir my hips in a circle, testing the sensation and the slippery friction of my still-sensitive clit against the root of him, the way he throbs in response.
His face twisting in a mask of pleasure/pain is so intimate, I have to do it again.
And again. It’s almost like a game that both of us are winning.
We’re on the same side, and that requires us to watch each other closely, identify the motion of our bodies that feels the best .
. . and oh, when we do that, we stay just like that, my hips riding up, down, up the length of him while his thumb dips down into the place we’re joined and strokes me extra fast, even while his gaze is intent on my face, his hips working up and back beneath me. So much at once.
So much. So much.
“Fuck. I’ve never been this stiff without coming.
Don’t go any faster or I’m going to explode.
” His forehead is shining with sweat now, along with the slopes and swells of his muscle, which are bunched with tension.
“Swear to God, I’m going to be dragging you into the laundry hut ten times a day for this. ”
“Not if I drag you in first.”
I’m on my back before I can take another breath, the man of my dreams pinning me to the area rug, his hips moving faster now, and he’s audibly panting, his thickness driving in and out of me, harder each time.
“Is this too much?” He kisses me while I frantically shake my head no, moaning over a particularly deep thrust that causes my knees to jerk around his waist. “My plan was to go slow, but the way you move . . . I can’t. ”
“Good. Don’t stop.” I move my fingers down between our bodies, touching myself where he left off, ominous tingles racing up the backs of my calves, thighs, culminating in a rippling strain in my belly. Yes. “I th-think . . . I think I’m . . .”
“Me too.”
“Oh my God.”
“I feel you. I’m feeling you finish.”
My nails dig into the breadth of his back, the intense constriction of my muscles making me arch my back, but I can’t, because he’s there, holding me down so perfectly, our bodies molded so tightly that we’re like a single being.
There’s no recourse against the rush, and he takes it a step further, pinning my thighs open while I orgasm, and I’m totally vulnerable to pleasure, to him, to the final quakes of my foundation.
But it’s my insides that quake when he pushes deep inside of me, his breath catching, stuttering, followed by a prolonged guttural moan against my mouth, his frame vibrating on top of me while he climaxes, his abdomen flexing and releasing, hips jerking involuntarily.
I decide then and there that I want to watch Dean come every day for the rest of my life.
There is simply nothing more satisfying in this world.
Except, maybe, finding out he loves me the way I love him.
Hearing those words out loud someday.
Who knew someday would come sooner than expected?