Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
AMELIA
The first orgasm made me see stars. Electric, like I was lit up from within, a thousand volts straight to my nerve endings.
The second one felt like I was floating among the stars. Soft, gentle, so fucking deeply satisfying, my poor vibrator is never going to do it for me again.
The third and fourth? Let’s just say I can barely breathe, much less form coherent thoughts after them.
“How many times do you make yourself come most nights?” Weston asked me, voice thick and gruff with lust, as his fingers were plunging inside of me, both of us watching.
“Used to be one,” I told him, throat tight.
“And now?” he asked.
“At least three or four,” I told him honestly.
He grunted, accepting my answer, and I think he took it as a challenge. To outperform my rechargeable friend.
It would have only taken one orgasm for that. Any one of the four he’s given me so far would’ve hit that mark, but that first one blew any toy—or other man, for that matter—completely out of the water. I don’t know what the hell possessed him, what took over the body of the Weston I thought I was coming to know, and turned him into this feral, starving creature with a Hoover for a mouth.
That’s not a complaint, for the record. Just, still spinning, trying to find the new center of gravity after he completely shook me to the core, upending everything I thought I knew about lust, sex, and my own needs, and left me here, shivering, somehow still craving more.
I watch him now, lying next to me in my bed, so tall that his legs hang off the short edge of the mattress. In nothing but dark red boxer briefs, his package is doing its best to set itself free—strangled by the tight, stretchy fabric beneath the elastic waistband—reaching for me, just inches out of his jurisdiction.
Weston has a smile on his face, as usual, but this one is content. Almost bliss. The urgency he used in eating me out within seconds of stepping into my van doesn’t shine through on that golden face, those dark green eyes, bright despite the dim light.
Now he almost looks like the visual representation of the feeling I have when I move things from my “Shit to Do” Pinterest board over to my “Been There, Seen That” board. Pleased. Accomplished. Relishing in the moment, though I know he’s far from done for the night.
One of his strong hands comes out to cup my face, then he pushes it back into my hair, running his fingers through the short, dyed dark strands and fingering them thoughtfully as he lets me catch my breath from number four. Or maybe still from number one.
“Even better than I imagined,” he says quietly, lips so close to mine as we stare at one another’s faces, lying on our sides.
“You haven’t even fucked me yet,” I remind him.
“I meant your taste.” Weston’s eyes glint in the low light. “Fucking delicious.”
Amazingly, his stomach picks this moment, after those words, to rumble so loudly it shatters the mood entirely. Laughter breaks out between us, and I hunch forward, head on his hard, bare chest, body shaking as I give in to the fits of giggles.
“Doesn’t seem like that’s enough for you to live on,” I finally say when I can compose myself, fingers wiping away tears from my eyes.
“I may have skipped dinner so I could get your van done faster and get you to myself,” he admits.
His face is more prideful than sheepish at the admission, and it’s so fucking cute I reach up to kiss his cheek. Something I can’t remember doing with a single partner since freshman year.
“Can’t have you passing out on me before I get to see what the big deal is with that package of yours,” I kid.
I doubt he’ll be able to pick up a baseball bat with it, but I’m pretty sure he has some tricks up his sleeve. Or pant leg, more like. There’s a lot more to this man than the stories that go around the grapevine in this town, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to see for myself how much of those whisperings are true.
Pushing myself back up onto all fours, I back off of the bed to find something to whip up for us. Van life means a condensed life, minimalistic to the extreme, per most people’s standards. It’s something I’ve gotten used to after all these years. Sure, there might be moments I wish my pantry could hold more than one grocery bag worth of stuff, or that I could have a full-size fridge and freezer instead of mini ones so a grocery trip could last me a whole week instead of just a couple days. And don’t get me started on my dreams for an actual closet. But I’ve made it work for this long, now I can show off some of my skills.
“Pop those doors open,” I tell Weston, gesturing to the back of the van with a nod of my chin. “Don’t wanna cook with them closed.”
“You’re cooking for me?” His smile turns into a grin, and he scampers over the mattress to open the back doors.
“For us,” I correct. My stomach decided it was time for a concert, harmonizing with his, apparently.
A gentle breeze filters in through the open doors, and though it’s dark out, between the light from the moon and the muted glow of the infinite stars, I can just make out the outline of the ridge of the Smokies that I’m backed up to.
Ducking down to my knees, I raid the fridge, then the pull-out pantry, as the pan and air fryer both preheat, until I have everything I need. It wasn’t like I was much of a cook when I hit the road at nineteen—I’d been subsisting on cafeteria food, living the bare-bones dorm life on a scholarship—but I’ve learned to fend for myself out here.
Pinterest has been invaluable, but over the years my mom has also helped me with some recipe ideas that can be whipped together with one pan, one burner, and an air fryer. This is one of my favorites, my take on something she used to make for our family when I was young.
I heat up some frozen vegetables in the pan, then add the meat and sauté it all together. Weston watches, fascinated, as I pour the mixture into a glass dish, top it off with all the good stuff, then finish it with a layer of frozen tater tots, and pop it in the front of the air fryer.
It takes just a few minutes to clean up the mess from cooking and put everything back where it goes, and while I work Weston chatters. He asks questions about van life, about what I’m making (a Minnesota classic, the tater tot hotdish), what I normally eat as a nomad (it’s not usually glamorous, but I try to sneak some fresh food in wherever possible because Alani and veggie straws can only keep me going for so long), and more.
Hands on my naked hips, I turn to face him, and his eyes rove every inch of me as I do. “What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?” It’s casual, offhand. Designed to look like there’s nothing to see here, so that the other person won’t press further. I recognize the tone well.
“What are you going to tell me about your life, Weston Grady?”
“What’s there even to tell?”
He manages to shrug a shoulder while laying back on the mattress, stretched out long ways this time, where he just barely fits with his knees bent, but at least his calves aren’t hanging off the edge like this. “You know all the important stuff by now,” he says. “Name’s Weston, I paint houses when I need work. Screw around when I don’t. I’m pretty much an open book, darlin’. Life’s simple, it’s good.”
Some sort of grunt comes out of me, disbelief, maybe even accusation.
“Give me something you’ve never told me,” I demand. “Never told anyone,” I say quickly, correcting my request.
That tongue of his goes into his bottom lip as he stares at me, weighing whether or not to give me something worthwhile. Eventually, he nods. “The reason I left the Heights in the first place is because my brother makes me feel like shit for being who I am. I’m not responsible enough for him because I didn’t fall in love as a teenager and have my life laid out ahead of me by the time I graduated like he did, so I guess I’m useless to him.”
Not much of that is news to me, based on things Weston’s already shared with me and the interactions between the brothers I’ve caught over the past month, but I’d be willing to bet half my storage space in the van that he’s never voiced this to anyone else before, so I nod and encourage him to go on.
Weston’s arms animate his point as he speaks. “He’s held it against me for probably fifteen years now, but what really sucks about it all is he doesn’t realize that I wish I could be him. That my life would be so much easier if I were just a copy of him. I wasn’t programmed the same way he was. And it’s what’s driven a wedge between us our whole lives.”
That part catches me off guard. I stop scrubbing and look over at him, meeting his gaze, deeper than it usually is.
“What do you mean?”
Wyatt should be so lucky to have a bit of Weston in him, not the other way around.
“I’m the funny one in the family, he’s the useful one,” Weston says with a shrug. The words could be heavy, they could tank the vibe, but somehow, they don’t. Just feels like he’s laying part of himself bare for me, not looking for pity. “He didn’t appreciate that about me, thought I should be a harder worker, fuck around a lot less, shit like that.”
“You’re a really hard worker,” I say, shaking my head at that assessment. “I saw you; I worked with you for weeks. Painting, and also while you fixed my engine. You’re not lazy, or useless, or whatever other insinuations were in there.” I flourish my hand in the air, circling and waving at all the bullshit in the ether of his brother’s words. “And fuck him for making you feel less about yourself. You deserve just as much good as he does. More, I’d say, if he’s been this big of an asshole your whole lives.”
“Thanks,” he says, dropping his head down and giving me a sad chuckle.
He turns to laughter even when he’s feeling low, and it’s so familiar, something I find myself doing on the regular—my own darkness, my only constant companion—it makes me like him that much more.
“I think he has this concept of me as some goofy fuckup of a kid who can’t keep his dick in his pants, when he’s always known what he’s wanted. Gone after it.”
“First of all, I’d say you’re a little too good at keeping your dick in your pants,” I crack, and he smiles, some of that inherent lightness right back in him, like it never went out. “But he and Rory have been together a long time, huh?” I ask, back to cleaning up in the sink. He’s told me bits and pieces about their history, stories of growing up together, whenever it’s come up as we painted together, but I haven’t heard the entire story.
“They got together in high school. Were together for ages, up until she left town. But she’s been back and they’ve been together again for, shit, probably almost two years now. She was it for him though. From the moment they got together his path was clear as the river, right in front of his eyes. That never happened for me, I guess. My future wasn’t here the way his was. Dunno where it was really.”
Circling back to how he started this little sharing session, I ask, “Did you want to leave town?”
He shrugs again, rolling over on his side to sit up. “Nah, not really. The Heights isn’t a bad place to live. ’Specially now with what Rory’s doing to it. But it was easier to get out than have the thing you hate most about yourself used against you like a weapon, ya know?”
Do I fucking ever.
“I really do. And for the record, I think you need to set your brother straight. He can live his own life however he wants, but he has no right to try to control yours, or to stop you from being your own self.”
My own words punch me in the gut with the hypocrisy in them, and I hope he doesn’t notice that I rush past it.
“I meant it when I said your brother was lucky to have you. And I mean it even more now after everything I’ve seen since then.”
Weston takes a deep breath, arms on his knees. “Your turn,” he says, rising to his feet. His head nearly brushes the ceiling when he’s barefoot like this. If he were in his work boots, he’d have to duck down.
I decide to give him something honest about me in return. “I haven’t seen my mom in a really long time. She’s my favorite person in the world, but I can’t go back to where we’re from, and she can’t meet me on the road. It’s…complicated.”
He can’t possibly understand, I know that was cryptic, but it’s as honest as I’ve been with anyone outside of my own head since I left college and tried to turn over a new leaf. But like the wonderful fucking person he is, he doesn’t press me for more. He’s never pressed me for more than I give him, which is why this friendship has worked out so far. As usual, Weston accepts what I tell him, and then he miraculously keeps the mood light, despite our somber confessions to one another.
“So what you’re making us now, that from your mom?”
“Yeah,” I smile. “It’s a classic back where I’m from. There are a million variations on the recipe, but this is the one that tastes like home to me.”
“I think home has a new taste for me after tonight,” he says, a little swagger in his smirk as he eyes my body.
A flutter of a thrill shoots down into my core, and I try to stay focused on getting the kitchen reset. It doesn’t take that long, but I learned in my first week on the road that putting things where they belong right when you’re done using them is the only way to make life work in a living space as compact as this. Nothing gets put off until later. You never know when you’re going to hit the road next, and the last thing Van Gogh or I need is a hot plate or a pan of leftovers flying through the living area, splattering onto the cabinetry, or worse.
By the time the dinner prep is cleaned up, all the cookware has been stowed once again, and the counters are completely empty (minus the air fryer), and wiped down, Weston is seated on the edge of the bed, and the conversation has turned personal .
“What about a fantasy? Anything we can check off tonight?”
Weston’s brows bounce playfully with my question. “Tonight is a fantasy for me, are you kidding?”
My face heats at the raw honesty in his tone, and the flush spreads down to my chest when he keeps talking.
“Getting to taste that perfect pussy, touch those designer tits. Breaking you in and being able to finally fuck you is everything I’ve been dreaming of, angel. It’s all one big, giant check for me.” He grips his dick through his underwear on the last line, and I laugh against my own will because really, that was just ridiculous.
How I still want to ride him senseless after some of the shit that leaves his mouth can only be explained by magic. That must be his superpower. Being completely over the top half the time, and still totally doable. More than doable. He lights my nerves on fire in an instant with a single look, and that mouth of his is just fuel for the flames.
Weston’s tone drops into a lower range and he asks, “How about your fantasies, darlin’? What can I do for you?”
Anything.
Everything.
All of the things, and some new ones I haven’t thought of yet.
But I don’t say that.
Truthfully, there’s a lot I’d love to do that I haven’t been brave enough to do with a one-night stand.
Maybe I could be with Weston?
“I still wanna ride it,” I remind him of that truth that slipped out of my tipsy mouth weeks ago. “But I have other fantasies too.”
The images I conjure when it’s late at night, just me and my B.O.B. flash through my mind’s eye. A man—who used to be faceless, just a ripped abdomen and arms with a blurry face, who’s since been replaced by a golden man with an endless tan, deep green eyes, and laugh lines on a face I could never forget—overtop of me for once. Broad shoulders taking up my view, hips pinning me in place as one of his arms holds my hands over my head, and I’m forced to take what he has to give.
A vision I’ve never given into in real life, where I’ve never trusted a partner to be in control, much less to dominate. It’s been so damn long since I trusted a man. It would be nice, in some instances, to know what that’s like. Like fulfilling fantasies, for starters.
He watches my eyes cloud over in the daydream, a hungry look in his own.
“Yeah?”
I shake my head, tucking my head into my shoulder. “Let’s start with getting to ride an authentic Southern gentleman first. That’s one pin I’d like to move to my “Been There, Seen That” board tonight. Finally.” I grumble the last word, more of a complaint, and he chuckles.
“I’ll give you your money’s worth,” he promises. “And I’m happy to help you tick off any other items on your list while you’re here.” Head down, his eyes flick up to meet mine from beneath heavy lids. “Or next time you’re in town.”
He offers it so simply, like I’m someone who could come back to visit. Like I’m not bound to keep on the road, never hitting the same place twice. His confidence in me, this simple belief he holds that I could be this version of that girl, it reminds me of everything Rory told me today. Of Lexi’s parting words. And a yearning fills me that’s more than just sexual. It’s one that’s achingly familiar, but deeper than I’ve known it before. The need for connection. For a home, even if it’s just a little while. One where I wouldn’t be an outcast.
It’s a future so close I can practically taste it, if only I let myself give in to the daydream of a life that will never be mine.
“You know, Rory cornered me today,” I tell him.
His brows dart up. “Is this part of your fantasy? Because I could be into this, I just need to imagine someone not my sister-in-law.”
“No,” I laugh, shoving his shoulder from where I stand between his legs at the side of the bed. “She wanted to give me that pitch you warned me about.”
“Oh,” he says, nodding like he knows where this is going.
“Yeah. Turns out, there’s some pretty cool incentives to stick around in this town.”
He nods again before speaking. “It’s not a bad place to slow down for a bit,” he says carefully, casually. “If… one wanted to stop moving for a breather.”
It’s my turn to nod.
The timer on the air fryer dings at us, and I jump back, further away from him. His eyes don’t even fall to my bare breasts as I do. They’re still locked on mine.
It only takes a minute to get the dish out of the air fryer and serve the meal up on the one plate I own. The plate is steaming, overflowing with one of my favorite recipes, and I hand it to Weston as I climb up to join him sitting on the bed.
“Sorry I don’t have more plates and forks. We’ll have to share.”
“No problem for me, darlin’. And might I just say, that was pretty damn impressive that you didn’t burn yourself even once while you made all this.” He looks pointedly at my nude form, blessedly free from oil splatters.
I laugh. “Well, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I’m not huge on clothes unless I have to, like if I’m leaving the van or something.” My head swivels to the open doors behind us, the mountain range silhouetted in the night sky. “You’re sure no one can see us here, right?” I reconfirm.
He shakes his head, eyes dancing. “Not a chance I’d share this view with anyone.” His eyes aren’t on the mountains.
Weston takes the first bite, not even blowing on it, just piling a huge mouthful in, a smile breaking out on his face when it hits him.
“It’s nothing fancy,” I tell him, while his mouth is busy chewing, to get him off the hook of the mandatory compliments.
He hands me the fork to let me take a bite and does these huge, exaggerated motions with his mouth so he can swallow the hot, colossal bite faster. Like everything between our sizes, my forkful is a lot smaller than his, but it’s full of flavor, nostalgia, and times that were good.
“Are you kidding? It’s delicious, Amelia. Ever since the diner closed here there’s been shit for options. You’ve got the flapjack house for breakfast, or something fried at Suds to soak up a little of the beer. And instant ramen can only last me so long. This is the first homemade anything I’ve had in an embarrassing amount of time.”
My insides warm from more than just the hotdish.
We keep talking while eating, about harmless things, funny stories, whatever comes to mind. It’s a sort of ease between us I haven’t had with a one-night stand before. An hour ago he was making me hear colors and see ancient deities, and now we’re talking about our demons, scratching the surface of that deep-baked trauma we all carry with us, and making each other laugh all within minutes of one another, no lingering weirdness as we hop from topic to topic.
We drag the meal out for far too long, talking for ages, until what has to be the early morning hours. It’s only fitting that the blaze between us returns to a full burn as soon as the meal is finally done, and like a good Boy Scout, Weston has cleaned the plate and fork and put them away for me while I use the restroom and make sure I’m ready for what’s next.
When I emerge, he sneaks in behind me, asking to borrow some toothpaste before closing the door, and I hear the toilet flush, the water run, and then he’s back in the bedroom portion of Van Gogh, somewhere around her haunches.
“So about this ride,” he says with a taunting smirk as he walks out of my wet room, completely naked, cock thickening at our matching outfits. “What exactly are you planning for me, darlin’?”
And just like that, I’m wet, everywhere. My thighs are slick, my mouth waters, and I want him in every way I can have him.
I let my eyes feast first, roaming over his strong chest, to his lean, cut abdomen, those muscled arms, and the tanned, corded forearms that lead my wandering gaze down to the lines at his hips that showcase the absolute beast that’s clearly awoken.
In fact, I think it’s looking at me, its one eye is definitely trying to grab mine.
Challenge accepted.
“I want you to lie on your back and hold on tight, Boy Scout.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, but he damn near jogs past me, launching himself onto the bed and sprawling on his back.
Weston pats his lap, dick erect and so inviting, and I put a knee up on the mattress, ready to crawl to him for a night he’ll never forget.
“I was gonna say fuck me up, Grady, but I think you might actually break me with that kraken between your legs.”
“Wait!” It’s practically a shout from his lips, panic in his green eyes, and I reel back.
“I wasn’t looking for an out. I’ll heal.”
“No,” he breathes out heavily. “Just, need a wrapper.”
Putting my foot back on the ground, I stare at him. “Tell me you brought some. I don’t have any in Thor size.”
“I did, I did, in my pocket.” He thrusts an arm out, pointing to his pants crumpled on the ground.
I bend down to grab his wallet, when I consider how big his girth is compared to the rubbers I’m used to seeing. No way a normal one would fit around him, right?
“Where do you get your condoms, a tent store?”
Weston laughs, a rich, deep sound that fills the van and the crisp night air outside of it too.
“Seriously, you could probably use a fucking tarp to cover that thing and go camping under it,” I mutter, digging through his pants. His chuckle scrapes my nipples deliciously, and I pop back up, expensive-looking wallet in hand.
“Nah, not in there, darlin’. Side pocket.”
I put his designer wallet back and find that one of the side pockets of his cargo pants feels bulkier than the other. Opening the flap, an accordion of condoms pops out, an entire strip of massive rubbers falls to the floor.
“Such a Boy Scout,” I tease, holding up the length of them by one end. “So prepared.”
“Not taking any chances at missing a single round with you, darlin’.”
I toss the foils onto the bed and he rips one off and tears the top, peeling the protection out. My eyes follow every single roll of the material as he slides it over and down his thick cock, and I gulp at the sight of his fist following the latex.
“I could barely take two of your fingers. How the hell do we think this is going to work, anyway?”
West holds up his two fingers next to his dick, and my throat bobs at the way his cock dwarfs them. I’m so screwed.
“Slowly,” he says with a filthy smirk. “Now hop on.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I jump up and scuttle across the bed, throwing one leg over his midsection to straddle him, watching his gaze heat at the show, and then I’m backing down onto him.
As soon as I feel the pressure of his thick head at my entrance, my eyes shut and he groans.
Knees spread as wide as I can, I lower myself onto him just a fraction of an inch, feeling the stretch already. A whimper escapes me, his eyes flame as he feels my tightness around his crown.
“Holy fuck.” It sounds like a prayer coming from his lips.
I can’t wait to see what else he says, what he looks like when I’m the one making him come. This man, thoughts of our night together have consumed me so completely for weeks now it’s probably bordering on unhealthy, but I don’t care. I want to make the most of every single moment we have tonight.
Weston’s fingers dig into my hips sharply, like it’s taking restraint not to slam his hips up into me, and it steels me to push myself, lowering down a bit more, until I’m so full of him I feel stuck.
I bounce in place for a few beats but can barely move with him lodged inside me like this.
“You’re gonna have to let me in,” he says, eyes on where we’re joined. “You can do it, angel. Open up for me.”
I look down and realize I’ve got nothing but the head inside me.
“Shit, you’re huge,” I groan. “Maybe you should use your fingers on me again and stretch me out some more.”
I roll my hips over him, but it doesn’t get me much further. Weston’s face is pulled tight and he looks strained for the first time since I’ve known him.
“Breathe with me, darlin’,” he tells me through clenched teeth, and I do. In, and out, in, and out. I watch his chest rise and fall, and match his breaths.
That gets us another inch, at most.
I gasp at the intrusion, the progress, the feel of him, so thick, so hard inside of me. My walls are squeezing him. It’s not a choice; it’s a visceral response.
“Back up,” he mutters, tapping my ass with one hand gently.
I pull up, feeling the delicious slide of our bodies as I rise off of him, and try to sink down again with more weight behind it this time.
My eyes flutter, rolling back in my head as the feel of him registers deep in my cells. I can’t help the noises I’m making, trying to take him, nails digging into his chest as I push my hips, grinding on him, his cock slipping in just a bit at a time.
His eyes are pressed shut tight, lip between his teeth, like he’s in pain.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
Weston’s eyes, dark green with flecks of gold, shoot open, landing on mine, full of emotion.
“No, I’m not okay. Tightest pussy I’ve ever had and you’re gonna kill me with these noises, those tits in my face as you’re trying to take me. I’m gonna blow before I’m balls deep, and I’ll never forgive myself for ruining this. Ever.”
A laugh falls out of me at his face, the anger at the situation apparent all over it.
“You think it’s funny?”
His hips jerk upward, enough to push himself just a bit further, to sting in a way I’ll feel for days, and I let out a loud moan, all the humor instantly gone. My head falls back, hair swinging, and my hands go to his thighs behind me to brace myself as my back arches.
“Jesus, Amelia, you’re gonna make me come if you keep doing that.”
I’ve told him before not to threaten me with a good time.
Keeping my back arched, head thrown, I pivot my hips, rolling them over his cock, and letting my body take what it needs from him. Up, then back down, up, and down, hitting all the right spots as I go.
“Fuck,” he grunts out, and his fingers dig in even tighter.
I change up my movements, putting more weight onto his thighs and swapping to a quick, shallow bounce, mostly on the head of his cock.
I’m never quiet in my own home, and that doesn’t change just because Weston is here with me. Moans and noises of pleasure coat the walls of my van as I let myself explore his body with my own, at the pace that I want to.
“Fuck, you should see you right now,” he grits out.
“Paint me a picture,” I beg him, head still tilted back, unable to keep my eyes open at the feel of the invasion of his thickness, knowing that I’m not even halfway to taking him yet. It’s taking all my concentration to survive this.
“Bright pink cunt, stretched out, dripping on my cock as you bounce there, perfect fucking tits matching every stroke.”
I let the groan building in my chest escape. “You feel so good,” I tell him.
“I almost feel bad for you,” he says, panting.
“Because I won’t be able to walk for a week?”
“Because you’ll never get to feel perfection. You’ll never know what it’s like to be squeezed by this cunt of yours. Best thing on earth, Amelia. Never felt anything like it.”
At that, I swivel my head to look at him once more. He brings a hand up from my side to grab one whole breast in his palm. I look down, watching my flesh mold to his fingers, the imprints of his fingertips leaving white marks around his strong grip. Past his arm, I see the rest of the show.
I watch his sheathed cock, larger than even the fake ones I’ve used over the years, struggle to open me up wide enough for him. It’s obscene. The sight turns me on more than it should, and I feel a fresh flood of desire course through my system.
“That’s it, darlin’,” he tells me, fingers squeezing my breast. “Watch this pussy stretch for me.” His other hand comes down to my front and we both watch as he swipes a finger through the mess I’m leaving on his dick and then he brings it up to my clit, playing with me.
The noise I make, the reaction of my body, tells him everything he needs to know about what that’s doing to me. I feel my body let more of him in, the sharp pinch giving way to a burn that’s satisfying, it feels like I’ve earned his cock.
“Ah, Jesus.” Weston curses. “How are you this tight? You a fucking virgin, angel? Am I the first to take this pussy?”
I shake my head at him while I go back to bouncing softly, willing my body to stretch faster, hands on the roof of the van to steady me. “It’s been a while though.” His breaths are strained, like he’s having to focus not to fuck this up. “And you’re definitely the biggest I’ve ever had,” I add on. That throws his breathing off.
“Fuck this,” he says, and his hands are back on my waist, pulling me up, up, and off of him.
“What?” I ask.
Is he stopping?
“It’ll fit,” I plead with him. “Just give it some more time.”
“You wanna be on top, right?” he asks.
I nod, appreciating that he isn’t making me tell him that I can’t be on the bottom. That my trust issues won’t let me be in the moment if we try it that way.
“Then we’re going to have to get creative.”
Hovering over him, I watch as he leans forward, sucking my pierced nipple into his mouth, pulling on it with that magical suction of his. I wrap my arms around his head, holding him to me, running my fingers through his hair, urging him on.
“Shit, West,” I moan. “I think you could make me come just from that.”
“Another time,” he gets the words out around my nipple before taking the piercing between his teeth and tugging on it.
A little scream comes out, but it’s not a protest. Shock, maybe, definitely surprise at the move, but clearly I fucking liked it because my lower abdomen heats, pussy flooding newly.
One of his hands comes down to check on me, fingers entering me with ease, stretching, pushing in and out in a way that makes lewd noises.
“If we didn’t need all of this, I’d be licking up every drop, I just want you to know that,” Weston murmurs against the skin of my other breast, giving it its fair turn of play.
“Should I just blow you?” I ask him. Van Gogh might as well be a lemonade stand after all the lemons life has been handing me since I was a preteen. “We could sixty-nine?”
Weston pulls back from my chest, eyes on mine again. “I’m getting inside this cunt tonight,” he promises. “You can sit on my face after. We’ll go for number eight while you get ate.” That filthy smirk graces his gorgeous face again. “Right now, I’m fucking you, and giving you five through seven. Hope you’re ready to keep counting.”
A little whimper of disbelief parts my lips, and he speaks again.
“I’m not sayin’ it’ll be easy, darlin’. But I’m sayin’ we’ll make it work.”
Still watching me, heavy-lidded, sinful green eyes on mine, Weston puts one of his hands in front of his face and spits.
Again.
And again.
I blush just at the sound of it, but the visual is enough to send me over the edge.
Lips quirked up at one side, palm full of saliva, he slaps it to my pussy, shoving the wetness inside of me with his fingers, and my knees buckle on contact.
The sting of his palm is instantly quelled by the pressure of his fingers, and the delicious heat that warms my insides at the sheer dirtiness of that move. The onslaught of need I feel, the way I won’t be whole until he’s inside of me, it overwhelms me in ways I’ve never known. The smirk on his face tells me he knows what that did to me, eyes glinting dangerously as he watches my reactions.
“Now sit on my cock, Amelia. All of it.”
Whimpering, I sit back down, lowering myself onto him, and I feel the give as my walls expand, stretching, molding to the shape of him as he infiltrates every iota of space I have to offer him, claiming it as his own.
We both groan as the rest of him finds its way home and he bottoms out, skin to skin past the base of the condom.
He spews a string of curses, as my entire world shifts to adjust to the feel of him, a chill erupting over my entire body, nipples peaking.
“Start moving,” he orders me, and his hands grip my ass cheeks and lift me up, bouncing me there.
The feel of his hands owning me like that, while his cock invades me, the tips of his fingers slipping back into my crack with every jostle of my body on his, it sends me over the edge. It’s so much. There’s so much of him, it touches all of me. Every single spot that feels good and some new ones I didn’t know I was into. I can’t stop the spiral of pleasure, even if I wanted to.
“Fuck yeah,” he whispers, breaths heavy and labored as he lifts me up and down again, my legs failing me at this point. “You coming on my cock, been dreaming of this since we met. Let me feel it.”
My eyes flutter shut, the last image they see is his arms straining, jaw clenched, pecs and abs taut as he does the work for both of us, messy dark blond hair spilling over his forehead, tickling that gorgeous face of his. That’s what I picture as I fall, pleasure cresting and bursting, waves of it lapping against my nerves and receding out, as he keeps me moving, up then down over his hard length.
When I come back to consciousness, regain use of my limbs, his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them.
“Jesus Christ, that was so fucking hot. What number was that?”
“Five,” I whisper, hardly able to form words.
“Damn right,” he says. “Two to go.”
His hips start pumping, pulling his hands back a bit, letting me regain control of my rhythm, and he matches me stroke for stroke. The slap of our skin, the press of him against my clit every time I sink down, it’s like a bonus for all my hard work. Encouragement to not let my legs give out, but to keep going and let myself get turned inside out all over again.
My last three hookups combined didn’t make me come this many times. Not even once have I come as hard with another partner as I have so many times already with Weston, the way it’s a violent storm, crashing against my cells, raking my nerve endings until they’re nothing but puddles.
Is this the universe giving me what I’m long overdue for? Or is this like a bear who’s about to hibernate for the long season ahead, stocking up while I can before I go so long without once more?
Either way, I’m not going to miss a single chance to get my fill of this man. And it doesn’t take long before another release is brewing, my nerves tingling with impending pleasure.
Weston watches greedily, so aware of what’s going on with me that he knows as soon as I’m close. One hand pinches my nipple, the other plays with my clit, and I hum, louder and louder, back to the open doors, the mountains behind me and the cool air tickling my skin as I ride him, coming apart from the inside out as he melts my fucking insides with a kind of mind-bending pleasure I never knew I was missing out on.
I always thought porn stars were faking it, but if any of those guys fuck like Weston, I can actually understand the way most of those women react. The faces they make, the way they scream, how they can’t get enough.
I’ve never been that girl before tonight, but I’m surprising myself with my enthusiasm here. My insatiable appetite, able to not just come during intercourse, but over and over again. I’m normally kicking the guy out the door after a single hard-earned O, done for the night, ready to get back on the road, happy to be alone with Van Gogh and my vibrator and onto the next adventure.
This? This is a feeling I could get addicted to.
My movements slow as I come down from the sixth high so far of the very long night, and I’m nowhere near done yet.
“How many times are you going to come for me?” I ask him, a teasing smile on my face. Any bite I might have is probably long gone, I can feel my eyes are bleary, hazy from bliss, my cheeks rosy, my nipples permanently pebbled at this point, and somehow my pussy is still hanging in there, still here for the ride. She’s a trooper.
“As many as you tell me to,” he says, hands on my hips, tongue on his lower lip.
“Such a good boy,” I tease him, watch his eyes glow when I do. “I want your first one of the night next. But I want to ride you reverse when you come.”
“You can ride me any way you want to,” he spits out. “If you circle back to the Heights, you can use my lap as your personal saddle next time.”
“I thought that was your face?”
“That too. My dick. My mouth. Fuck, they’re all yours, darlin’. Take them.”
He must be close to coming, because now he’s just spitting nonsense. He’d probably give me his wallet and everything in it if I asked him right now.
We work in tandem to spin me around, resituating me so I’m facing the view outdoors, the faintest light in the sky highlighting some of the furthest peaks on the horizon.
I lean forward, arms outstretched, hands on his thighs as I find my pace like this.
“Goddamn, this view.” His voice is strained, and it comes in between his breathy pants.
“It’s stunning,” I agree, moving slowly over him as I coax my pussy not to give out on me just yet. She can have a break when Weston Grady isn’t beneath me. Until then…
Voice tight, Weston says, “You ever get tired of running, Amelia, Smoky Heights is here. I’m here.”
Before I can complain about that feeling like more than we agreed to, he gives me even more. A thumb, or the tip of one, in my back entrance. I gasp, jumping at the intrusion, and lean further forward, which presses my clit into his balls with every move.
And that’s how we both come, who knows how long later. Eyes on the horizon, the faint sounds of nature welcoming a fresh start with a new day, a new dawn, as the gray skies turn to orange, yellow, and eventually blue, Weston invading all my senses, the only thing I can feel, all around me as I take in the sights and sounds. The experience of this time with him, from the rays of sunlight, to the chirping of the birds, and the spring air caressing my bare chest. It’s all him .
It feels like my first real sunrise after a years-long darkness, a nearly eternal period of night in my life.
Neither of us goes to sleep, we don’t want tonight to end.
He keeps his promise. And he doesn’t stop at eight. In fact, we get through half the strip he brought. I’m going to need an IV drip, an elephant’s dose of ibuprofen, and an ice pack on my seat when I hit the road, but it’ll be worth it.
Though it’s a lot more than the orgasms this man gives me that are going to be hard to drive away from. It’s all of him, the way he shares himself so freely with me that makes me want to stay.
Maybe it’s just the optimist in me, but from this vantage point, Smoky Heights looks like it has an awfully temptingly bright future.
And when I finally, finally watch him drive away beneath the glaring sun in the late morning, taillights on his pickup glowing white and red against the horizon, I don’t like the way the thought of never seeing him again feels one bit.