BOONE #5
Her pace quickens. Less rhythm, more need. She rides me like she’s chasing something only I can give her. And I give it. Every thrust, every filthy drag of my cock inside her—this is all hers.
My hand slides around her front, fingers slipping straight between her thighs—and the second my thumb finds her clit, she jerks like I shocked her. Back arches. Hips stutter. A loud, guttural moan tears out of her like she didn’t see it coming.
I rub tight circles against her clit, slick and throbbing under my touch, and she melts—legs trembling, breath catching in her throat.
“Fuck, Boone—”
“You’re soaked,” I growl, voice dark and rough in her ear. “Dripping all over me and I’ve barely even touched you.”
She gasps when I drag two fingers through her mess, spread it over her clit, and rub harder—faster—relentless now, chasing the way she shakes every time I hit the right spot.
“Feel that?” I grind in deeper, my hand working her harder. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, shaking like you don’t know what to give into first—my cock or my fingers.”
She whimpers—head dropping back onto my shoulder, thighs tensing around my hips.
“Boone—” Her voice is wrecked. Barely more than a whisper.
I fucking love that she’s like this—wild, impulsive, ready to take what she wants without overthinking a damn thing.
Who else would drag me into a filthy dive bar bathroom and ride me like this without a second thought?
That’s just Lark, though—burning hot, untamed, alive in every second.
And I crave that about her, the way she doesn’t hold back.
The way she lives in the moment, pulls me into it with her, makes me forget everything else.
She’s not scared of getting messy, of being messy, and I respect the hell out of that.
It’s honest. Real. None of the fake shit people wrap themselves in.
Lark strips it all away and demands the same from me.
I don’t have to pretend with her—I get to be raw, rough, me— and she likes it for what it is.
A knock cracks through the air like a bullet—sharp, jarring, way too real for what we’re in the middle of.
There’s a beat of silence. Then a girl’s voice filters through the door, syrupy and awkward and painfully Southern.
“Uh… are y’all almost done? I, um… left my favorite lipstick in there.”
On the counter, not two feet from us, sits a shiny silver tube of fucking lipstick.
Lark freezes. Her eyes lock with mine in the mirror—wide, flushed, a little stunned.
“Oh my god,” she pants, voice barely more than a breath.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t.
My hand stays locked around her waist, and I thrust up into her—hard, fast—punching the air from her lungs in sharp, staggered gasps. Her head tips back onto my shoulder, her mouth falling open as her eyes flutter shut again. Her whole body quakes around me, slick and tight and fucking perfect.
The mirror gives me everything.
Her flushed chest. The sweat-slicked strands of hair sticking to her throat. The way her mouth trembles with every thrust like she’s about to cry from how good it feels.
She’s a fucking vision. Wrecked and gorgeous, coming apart in my lap under the shitty light of a bar bathroom. I look at her in the mirror and can’t believe she’s here, with me, when she could have anyone in this whole damn bar.
And it guts me, how badly I want to give her everything.
My hand slides up and tugs the top of her shirt down, rougher than I mean to be, but she moans when her breast spills free into my palm. I roll her nipple between my fingers—pinch, twist—just hard enough to make her hips stutter, her whole body jerking in my lap.
She’s close.
I can feel it in how she clamps around me, in the erratic rhythm of her hips as she starts chasing the high on her own, breath coming in short, desperate bursts.
She’s falling apart and she knows it. I know it. And I’m right there with her, every muscle in my body locked down tight as I hold off, teeth grit, giving her exactly what she needs.
My hand stays on her breast, fingers working her until she’s squirming against me, thighs trembling, that pretty, ruined moan building deep in her throat.
I lean in, my mouth dragging across the shell of her ear, breath hot and shaking.
“You feel so fuckin’ good, baby,” I rasp, voice wrecked. “You’re takin’ me so deep.”
My fingers tighten on her waist. “Look at yourself. Look at how wrecked and gorgeous you are for me.”
And she does.
She lifts her head. Meets her own eyes in the mirror. She’s never looked better—hair wild, skin damp, body working mine like she owns it. I grip her tighter, pull her down hard onto me, holding her there as I thrust up deep, burying myself inside her to the hilt.
She moans—deep and broken—and the sound punches straight through my chest, rattling something loose inside me.
“Yeah,” I breathe, voice rough, hips grinding up slow and hard. “Right there, huh? That where you need me?”
She nods, barely, breath catching on every movement. I hold her there, pressed down tight against me, keep my rhythm steady—rolling deep. Controlled only because I want to feel every second of her coming undone.
And then it hits.
She tightens around me—sharp, pulsing flutters that grip me hard, that tell me exactly how close she is.
Her hands scramble for the edge of the counter, knuckles white as she grips it like an anchor.
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, trying to stay quiet, but her body gives her away.
She’s shaking. Trembling. Fucking unraveling.
“Don’t hold back,” I murmur, lips brushing her jaw. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let go.”
She tries to fight it. I feel her try—hips stuttering, breath going ragged as she holds on with everything she has. But I don’t let her. I keep moving, deep and steady, hitting that spot over and over again.
She breaks.
Her back arches, thighs clenching tight around me, and she lets out a cry she can’t catch in time—high and raw, echoing off the bathroom walls like a prayer and a curse all at once.
And fuck if it’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
I thrust up into her one last time—hard, deep—and lose it.
My rhythm falls apart. Every muscle locks as I hold her down, grinding into her, buried so deep I swear I’m part of her.
I come hard, my body jerking under hers, breath torn from my chest in short, ragged bursts.
My face drops into the curve of her neck, and I stay there, letting her skin ground me while I ride it out.
Heart pounding. Skin flushed. Nerves shot to hell.
I kiss just below her ear, still catching my breath. “Let’s go home,” I murmur, lips brushing her damp skin. “Pick up where we left off.”
She leans into me—soft now, loose and warm in my arms. Her fingers slide into my hair, nails dragging through it slow and lazy, like she’s trying to keep me there just a little longer. And she could. She could keep me right here forever.
She tilts her head, her voice quiet, dreamy. “Where’s home?”
I kiss her again—slower this time. Still inside her. Still not ready to let go. “Anywhere you are. ”
We don’t move for a beat. Just breathe. The air’s thick with sweat and sex and her perfume. It clings to my skin, to my chest and I don’t want to forget how this feels.
Eventually, she shifts, lifting off me with a soft sound—half sigh, half ache—and I already miss the weight of her.
She stands, shaky and flushed, cum running down her thighs, and I don’t even try to hide how much I like it. How much I want to keep her messy like this. Mine.
“Let me clean you up,” I say, voice softer now, more careful.
She shakes her head before I’m even finished. “It’s fine.” She’s already reaching for her underwear, trying to brush it off, her face flushed like she’s suddenly shy.
But I’m already moving.
I tear a couple of rough paper towels from the busted-ass dispenser, run it under warm water, and drop to one knee in front of her. I drag it up her thigh—slow, gentle, quiet. Not because I have to. Because I want to.
Her eyes track my face as if she’s not sure what to make of me kneeling here, cleaning her up like it matters. Like she matters.
She watches me, silent now, eyes flicking over my face like she can’t decide if I’m serious or not.
And I am. I mean every second of this—every slow drag of the towel, every careful touch. I’m not just cleaning her up, I’m taking care of her. Because the whole world can burn down if it wants to, but I’ll still be right here—on the floor of this shitty bathroom—making sure she’s okay.
It hits me, sudden and sharp that this is all I want.
Not just the sex, not just the fire. Her.
All of her. The loud, reckless parts and the soft, quiet ones she doesn’t show often.
I want to be the one she lets in. Who knows her better than anyone else ever could.
Who sees her messy and wild and beautiful and doesn’t turn away but leans in closer instead.
I’d get on my knees for her a hundred times over. Wipe her clean, hold her steady, pick her up when she’s too stubborn to admit she needs it. That’s what I want—not just tonight, not just here. Always.
I drag the towel up her thigh one last time, catching the trail of cum just above her knee, and toss the paper towel in the trash. My hands linger on her legs, not wanting to let go just yet.
She shifts, just barely, and murmurs, “Thank you.”
Quiet. Almost like letting me do this for her feels too close, too real.
I straighten up, take her face in my hands, and kiss her and it’s just the two of us breathing the same air, tasting each other like we’ve got all the time in the world.
When I pull back, I make sure she’s looking at me—really looking.
“Anything for you,” I say, voice low but steady. “You hear me? Anything.”
She nods, just once, small and quick. Then she leans in and kisses me again, soft this time, like she’s telling me something she doesn’t have words for. Her lips linger on mine, and I feel it in my chest, that pull she has on me—like gravity, like I don’t get a choice in it.
Another knock at the door shakes the moment loose, louder this time, impatient.
We move fast. I reach for my jeans, hauling them up, still trying to catch my breath as I fasten my belt.
She’s in front of the mirror, calm, focused, already stepping back into that tiny skirt, shimmying it up over her hips like this is just unapologetically a part of her night.
Her eyes stay locked on her reflection, smoothing the fabric into place.
I can’t stop watching her.
She glances over, catching me. “What?”
I shake my head, a grin pulling at my mouth. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”
Her eyes narrow, half amusement, half disbelief. Her fingers rake through her hair as she turns back to her reflection, trying to tame it into something that doesn’t scream that she just got fucked senseless, but it’s a losing game.
Her lips are swollen, bitten red. Her cheeks flushed. She drags her tongue over her bottom lip slowly, then mutters, “Jesus. I look like I just had sex in a bar bathroom.”
I step in behind her, my chest to her back, arms sliding around her waist.
“That’s because you did,” I murmur against her neck, dropping a kiss there before brushing my mouth against her ear. “And you’re about to do it again. In my bed. Then the shower. Then maybe the kitchen, if I can wait that long.”
She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head as she lightly swats my shoulder. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m consistent,” I whisper, still grinning.
She smooths her skirt like she’s trying to make herself presentable, like any amount of adjusting is going to hide what we’ve just done. It won’t. She’s glowing, and anyone with eyes will know exactly why.
The door creaks open, and the girl from earlier rushes past us, eyes wide like she’s been waiting outside this whole time. She mutters something about her lipstick and disappears into the bathroom without a glance in our direction.
Lark’s hand brushes mine and I lace our fingers together like I’ve been doing it my whole life.
When we step back out into the bar, it hits me all at once—the thrum of bass from the band in the corner, the low lights casting everyone in amber-gold, the mix of sweat, smoke, and spilled whiskey on the floor.
The song playing is some old outlaw country track that people only dance to when they’ve had just enough to forget their regrets.
And we walk straight into it—undone and unbothered.
She’s still wild around the edges—hair messy, lips kiss-bruised, that faint flush that hasn’t left her chest. I’ve got marks on my neck I didn’t walk in with, and people notice. They always do.
Someone elbows a friend. Another tips their chin in our direction. But we don’t stop.
She doesn’t let go of my hand.
Riley’s waiting at the bar, leaned back on a stool like he’s been keeping score. His drink’s half gone. His grin’s full tilt.
“You get lucky, Wilding?” he calls over the music, smug as hell.
I don’t answer right away.
I just let go of Lark’s hand, grab her by the hips, and lift her clean off the floor. She yelps, hands smacking at my back, laughing as I haul her over my shoulder.
“Boone! What the hell! ”
The place erupts—clapping, shouting, drinks sloshing. And I turn just enough, grinning like the devil as I shout back over the noise.
“The luckiest.”
And fuck if it’s not the truth.
Riley lets out a low whistle, slow-clapping like I’ve just hit a walk-off home run. His drink sloshes, half-forgotten in his hand, as he grins wide enough to split his face.
“Goddamn right,” he hollers, laughing like he’s proud of me for something more than just the obvious.
Lark’s fists thump against my back, her voice muffled by the way she’s hanging. “You can’t just haul people around like this. What is this, the damn Stone Age? Put me down, you psycho.”
She’s all bark and no bite.
I adjust her easily, sliding one arm under her thigh, her hip pressing warm against my shoulder. My palm skims the back of her leg, fingers curling around soft skin I’ve already memorized, and I keep walking—not a single ounce of shame in me.
Because this isn’t just some bar hookup. Not for me. She’s fire and grit and laughter in my arms, and she doesn’t even know how far I’ve already fallen for her.
So I hold her a little tighter and keep walking toward the door like I’m not planning to take her home and ruin her all over again.