BOONE #4
She steps in close, eyes locked on mine like she’s already made up her mind.
Her fingers skate over the buttons of my shirt, slow and unhurried, dragging over each one like she’s savoring the moment.
One. Then another. And another. The fabric parts under her touch, and I just stand there, heart thudding, completely at her mercy.
When she finally pushes it off my shoulders, her palms drag across my chest—warm, steady, and not in any kind of rush. She doesn’t let go right away. Just lingers there, hands splayed over my skin like she wants to memorize the shape of me.
And fuck, if she asked me to drop to my knees right now, I would.
Then her gaze drops.
She stares at the thick line of my cock pressing hard against my jeans. Doesn’t touch. Just tilts her head and licks her lips.
“Your pants. I want them off.”
I lift my hips and strip them down, rough and impatient. Jeans and briefs shoved to my knees. My cock kicks up, flushed, leaking, heavy against my stomach. She stares at it for a long second—like she’s sizing up the challenge.
She doesn’t move. Not until I shift like I might reach for her.
Then she steps between my legs, denim brushing my bare thighs. Her fingers slide along my jaw, eyes locked on mine.
“No hands,” she says. “Not yet.”
She straddles me, her thighs sliding over mine, bare skin dragging slow, sticky with heat.
Her denim top’s fallen down some, and I get an eyeful of soft, flushed skin and her tits are driving me out of my mind.
She doesn’t sit fully—just hovers, her cunt pressing hard against the underside of my cock, dragging over it as she rolls her hips once, slow and deep.
My head drops back and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep myself from coming right here, right now .
Her breath hits my cheek, her lips ghosting just above mine. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to ruin something,” she murmurs. “And now you don’t get to touch any of it.”
My fingers twitch around the arms of the chair. She moves again, her clothed core dragging across me with just enough pressure to make my breath stutter.
“Fuck—” I hiss.
She doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let me come up for air. Just keeps grinding against me in tight, devastating rolls, dragging her heat along the length of me with the kind of rhythm that makes my spine bow and my thighs lock up.
Every now and then, she shifts her hips just enough to let the head of my cock slide along the seam of her soaked panties, dragging through slick fabric that’s doing nothing to protect my sanity.
I bite down on a groan, hard, neck straining as I fight the urge to flip her over and take what she’s teasing.
Her tongue slides slow across my throat before she sucks deep—hard enough to leave a mark. I feel it in my spine.
“Lark—” My voice breaks. I don’t care.
She bites just below my jaw, then pulls back, eyes dark and wild. “No talking. No touching. Just sit there and take it like a good boy.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathe, chest heaving.
She laughs—low and wrecked. Then her hand slides into my hair—tight, commanding—and yanks my head to the side, exposing more of my throat.
Her mouth is back on me in a second—hot, open, relentless. She kisses down the line of my jaw, teeth scraping, tongue dragging slow over flushed skin before she bites again. Harder this time. Like she’s making a map of every place I’m hers.
I groan, low and guttural, hips jerking up against her as her grip tightens
“You want inside me?” she asks, voice wrecked, shaky even though she’s the one holding the reins. “Then let me hear you beg, cowboy.”
“Please,” I rasp, the word tearing out of me before I can stop it. “Lark, I need—fuck—I need to be inside you. ”
She leans in and shuts me up with her mouth.
It’s slow at first, cruel in how perfect she makes it. Her tongue teases the seam of my lips before she deepens it, taking her time, taking everything. She tastes like vodka and heat and something far more dangerous than either.
Then her teeth sink into my bottom lip, sharp enough to sting.
I groan into her mouth, hips jerking under her, but she doesn’t give me space to breathe.
Her tongue is back on me in the next second, licking over the bite like an apology she doesn’t mean.
She’s still grinding against me, soaked through those panties that should’ve come off five minutes ago.
“You feel that?” she whispers against my mouth, voice hoarse, lips brushing mine like we’re still kissing. “That’s how wet I am from making you beg.”
I groan again—broken and unfiltered—and she laughs, breath hitching.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, dragging her tongue across the edge of my throat. “Sitting there like a good boy, cock dripping, ready to come, and I haven’t even let you inside me yet.”
My whole body jerks, desperate and raw, and I don’t even try to hide it.
She licks the sweat from my collarbone. “You want it that bad?” she breathes. “Want me wrapped around you while you lose your fucking mind?”
I nod, chest rising hard, my voice caught somewhere in my throat.
“Too bad,” she whispers, dragging herself harder across me, grinding right against the head of my cock until I bite down on a curse. “You don’t get to come until I say.”
She kisses me like she’s past pretending this is anything but filthy. It’s all tongue and pressure, her mouth slanting hard over mine, taking everything I give her and then some.
And then her hand slides between us.
She wraps her fingers around me with the kind of grip that makes my breath catch mid-kiss. It’s not tentative. Not soft. It’s certain. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Exactly how far she can push me.
Her palm moves once—slow and firm—dragging along the full length of me, and my hips buck before I can stop them. I groan into her mouth, raw and wrecked.
She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing mine as her hand strokes me again. “That desperate already?”
Her thumb swipes the tip before trailing back down the underside, right along the nerve that makes me grunt and lock my jaw.
And she keeps going.
Long, steady pulls. Her wrist twisting just slightly at the end of each stroke. The sound of it—slick and filthy and close—is nearly drowned out by the harsh drag of my breath, the way it saws in and out of me like I’m losing my goddamn mind.
“Fuck,” I gasp into her mouth.
She hums like she enjoys the sound. Like she wants to hear what else she can pull out of me.
Her grip tightens, her pace still torturously slow. Wrist rolling just enough to make it feel like she’s pulling pleasure from the base of my spine. My whole body’s locked, trying not to move, not to come, not to beg.
She doesn’t rush. Her other hand starts to wander—skimming over my chest, dragging her nails lightly across my stomach, circling my ribs, teasing the edge of every place that makes me twitch.
She traces the shape of my hip, the dip just above my thigh.
I feel like I’m being dismantled, piece by piece.
Her voice is breath against my throat. “You’re holding on so tight. Why?”
I growl through gritted teeth, whole body straining toward hers. “Lark—Jesus—”
Her hand slows. Then stops.
I barely get a breath in before she eases off my lap, her touch gone like a snapped cord, and I nearly fall forward chasing it.
She steps back, eyes on me like I’m something she’s proud to have ruined.
Her boots come off first—slow, one at a time.
The sound of them hitting the tile echoes, sharp and final.
Then her fingers go to the button of her skirt.
Pops it open like it’s nothing. The fabric drops in a whisper, pooling around her bare feet.
And then she slips her panties down—thin, sheer, a soft lilac that looks sexy as fuck.
Her thighs glisten. Her skin’s flushed. She’s a goddamn mess. And she’s never looked more put together.
I shift in the chair, half-wild, needing to touch her, anchor her, get my hands on every inch of that slick, wrecked body—but I don’t move. Not unless she says.
She walks back toward me with slow steps and bends, her lips brushing mine—not a kiss, just a breath.
“You’ve been a good boy,” she whispers, fingers ghosting over my knee.
She doesn’t wait for permission—just spins around and climbs into my lap like it’s her damn throne.
Her back is to me, her knees planted. Her hands are braced my thighs as she hovers, the heat of her slick center brushing the tip of my cock, making me hiss through clenched teeth.
And then she sinks down.
Slow.
So fucking slow I feel every pulse of her, every muscle stretching to take me deeper. She doesn’t ease into it. She claims it. All of it. Inch by inch, until her ass is flush with my thighs and I’m so deep inside her I forget where I end and she begins.
A sound rips from her throat—sharp, almost pained—and her fingers dig into her own knees like she needs something to hold onto. Her head drops forward, shoulders tense.
She glances at me in the mirror. That same half-wild look in her eyes, pupils blown wide, mouth open like she can’t catch her breath.
“You can touch me now.”
My hands are on her in an instant.
Palms sliding up her sides, finding every dip, every soft curve, every muscle twitching beneath my fingers. I grip her hips, then slide down, squeezing the backs of her thighs, the swell of her ass, dragging her back against me so hard she gasps .
She starts to move—grinding, not bouncing. Deep, slow rolls that make her whole body tremble and drive me straight to the edge. I watch us in the mirror—watch the way her body rocks into mine, how my hands grip her tighter every time she takes me deeper.
I lean forward, mouth at her spine, pressing my lips to the sweat collecting at the base of her neck. Her skin’s hot, her hair damp, and I lick a slow line up her shoulder just to hear her breath hitch.
“You like watching yourself fuck me?” I rasp, voice breaking in her ear.
She shivers. “I like watching you fall apart.”