The Weight of Him by Nora #3
I moaned again. My pussy clenched on nothing, still wet from his tongue, a slow throb that hadn’t quit. I dropped a hand between my own thighs and he saw it.
“No.” Soft, but it stopped me. “That’s mine right now. You touch that cunt when I say. Keep your hands on me.”
The order landed hotter than it should have. I put both hands back on him — one around the base I couldn’t swallow, one on the hard flex of his thigh — and I sucked like I was trying to pull the decision out of him through his cock.
He lasted.
Minutes blurred into the wet rhythm of it.
Spit. Gag. Breath. The filthy click of my mouth coming off and going back on.
My jaw ached. My lips felt swollen. Drool cooled on my chest.
He kept talking me through it in broken pieces, not the same words twice, like he was afraid if he went quiet he’d spend.
“Tongue under the head — there. Fuck. Slower. I can feel you shaking. Don’t you dare stop unless you need air.”
I needed air. I took it and went back. The head was darker now, angry, leaking onto my tongue in thin pulses I swallowed because I wanted the taste of him in my throat when this was over.
His control started to fray. The careful stillness in his hips broke into small, helpless pushes.
The hand in my hair stopped being a guide and became a claim.
He fucked my mouth in short, shallow thrusts that still made me gag, made more spit run down my chin onto my tits, and I took it with my eyes up on his face so he had to see me choose it.
“Nora — I’m close. Too close.”
He pulled out of my mouth with a wet sound that felt indecent even after everything we’d already done. His cock shone, ridged with spit, slapping once against his stomach as he gripped the base hard, squeezing, breathing through his teeth like pain.
I stayed on my knees, mouth open, chin a mess, waiting to be used.
He didn’t finish.
He stood over me shaking, chest working, the head of his cock twitching inches from my lips, a thick bead of pre-cum stretching and falling to the floor between us.
“Not in your mouth,” he said. Each word cost him. “Not the first time I spend. I want it in you. I want it dripping out of your pussy when they finally knock on that door. You hear me?”
I heard him.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist and the ring flashed, stupid and bright. My throat felt used. My knees were raw. The storm still had the road.
He was still hard enough that it looked like a problem he was going to solve inside me whether the mountain gave us an hour or a day.
He hauled me up off the floor by my arms.
Not rough enough to scare me. Rough enough that my knees left the grit and my chest hit his.
His cock dragged wet across my belly, leaving a smear I felt like a brand.
He kissed me and I tasted myself on his mouth from the table and him from my own tongue, a mixed filthy heat that made my head tilt back.
“Bunk,” he said.
We didn’t make it graceful. My calf hooked his hip.
His jeans were still shoved half-down, boots still on, flannel hanging open.
He got me on my back on the thin mattress and the springs complained like the cabin had an opinion.
The blanket smelled like him — smoke, wool, the ghost of the floor where he’d tried to stay decent.
He kicked the jeans farther down and came down over me. All that 36 year old weight, work-thick through the chest and thighs, caging me in without pinning me. His cock lay heavy along my pussy, sliding through the wet he’d made with his mouth and the new wet the kneeling had pulled out of me.
He didn’t push in.
He looked at me. Rain hammered. The stove ticked. My ring sat stupid and gold against the dark wool near my shoulder.
“Last chance to keep this a storm story you can lie about,” he said. His voice had dropped into that scraped place. “You say stop, I get dressed and I sleep on the floor till they come. You say yes, I’m putting this cock in you and I’m not going to fuck you like a man who’s sorry.”
“Yes.” It came out on a breath. Then clearer, because he needed it nailed. “Put it in me. I want it. I want you.”
He reached down, notched the head against me, and pressed.
The stretch stole my air.
Thick. Blunt. Slow. He worked the head in and held, jaw locked, watching my face like it was the only weather that mattered.
I was soaked and it still burned in that good, opening way that made my mouth fall open.
I felt every inch as he gave it, a hot slide that kept going after I thought I had all of him, until his hips met mine and I was full in a way Grant’s careful, polite body had never even suggested.
“Fuck.” The word broke out of me. “Cal — that’s—”
“I know.” He stayed buried, shaking once. Sweat already at his temple. “You take a second. You feel how deep that is. That’s me. Not a story. Not a plan. That’s my cock in your pussy while your fiancé thinks you’re stranded and bored.”
I clenched around him without meaning to. He hissed and dropped his forehead to mine.
Then he fucked me.
Unhurried. Long strokes that dragged the head over that swollen place inside me on every pass.
The bunk frame knocked the wall in a dull, dirty rhythm the storm almost hid.
His belly rubbed my clit when he sank all the way in.
I smelled sex now, sharp and wet, under the smoke.
I heard the slick of it. I felt the ring catch in his hair when I grabbed the back of his neck and held on.
He didn’t close his eyes.
Neither did I.
Every thrust was a choice we kept making.
I said yes between breaths when the stretch peaked.
He said my name like it hurt him. My tits moved under his chest.
His mouth found my throat, then my mouth again, kissing me sloppy while he bottomed out and stayed, grinding, giving my clit the pressure it wanted.
The orgasm gathered low and mean.
Not the sharp tear of his tongue. This one was deeper, a rolling pull that started where he filled me and spread until my thighs trembled against his hips. I came on his cock with a sound I didn’t recognize, pussy milking him in hard pulls, eyes still on his because he wouldn’t let me hide it.
He fucked me through it, slower, deeper, watching me come apart on him, and he did not follow.
I felt him throb. Felt how close he was in the way his rhythm stuttered and his breath went ragged against my cheek. He locked down anyway, buried to the root, balls heavy against me, and held still while I twitched around him.
Sweat dripped from his jaw onto my collarbone.
“You still want ruined,” he said, quiet, wrecked, cock still pulsing inside me like it had its own argument. “Or do you want me to pull out and pretend this was far enough?”
The storm answered first, a long groan of wind along the eaves.
I tightened around him on purpose.
I didn’t tell him to pull out.
He pulled out of me like it cost him.
The empty ache landed first, a wet throb where he’d been seated so deep the bunk still smelled like it.
I made a sound I didn’t mean to give him.
He heard it. His mouth tilted, not quite a smile, and he stood, hauled his jeans up just enough to walk, and lifted me off the mattress by the backs of my thighs.
My back hit the wall beside the stove.
One side of me cooked. The logs at my spine were cold enough to sting.
The contrast ripped a gasp out of me before his cock even found me again.
He held me there with his body, boots planted, my legs hooked over his hips, ass in his hands.
I was dripping down him already, a slick line I could feel cooling on my inner thigh.
“Hold the wall,” he said.
I did. Rough bark bit my palms. He dragged the head of his cock through my pussy once, twice, then shoved back in to the root in one thick slide that punched the air out of my lungs.
Different like this.
Gravity did half the work. Every thrust lifted me and dropped me onto him.
The wet slap of it was louder standing — skin on skin, my ass hitting his belt, the ugly music of how soaked I was.
The stove breathed heat across my left hip.
The logs scraped my shoulder blades. I smelled scorched pine and sex and his sweat.
He fucked me harder than the bunk.
Not mean. Claimed. His fingers dug into the undersides of my thighs hard enough that I knew I’d wear it. I wanted to wear it. I wanted the main house to see it and not have a polite word for what it was.
“When we ride down,” he said against my ear, voice gone raw, “your thighs are going to shake on that saddle. They’re going to know somebody had you open. Grant’s going to look at you across his daddy’s table and wonder why you won’t sit still.”
“Good.” It came out broken. I turned my face and bit his jaw. “Let him wonder. Let him look at my mouth and know it was on your cock first.”
Cal’s rhythm stuttered, then drove deeper. A growl landed in my hair.
“You talk like that and I am going to ruin more than a wedding.”
“Then do it.” I clenched around him and watched his eyes go dark. “Fuck me like you already lost the job. Tell me what he’ll see.”
“He’ll see you walking funny.” Thrust. “He’ll see my fingerprints when you reach for the gravy boat.” Thrust. “He’ll smell me on you if the rain doesn’t wash it off, and it won’t, Nora, because I am going to put so much of myself on you the storm can’t take it.”
My head dropped back against the wood. The cabin had gotten small. Just heat, cold bark, the thick shove of his cock, the filthy picture he was painting on purpose.
I gave it back.
“He kisses like a handshake,” I said. “He fucks like he’s keeping score for his father. You feel like a man who wants me stupid. I want him to know I came on a foreman’s cock in a shack and asked for another.”
“Jesus.”
He hit a spot that made my vision white at the edges.
I dug my heels into his ass and held on.
My tits bounced between us. He ducked and sucked a nipple into his mouth without slowing his hips, teeth and heat, and the dual pull — mouth, cock, the grind of his pubic bone on my clit — yanked the orgasm up out of me fast and mean.
I came standing.