Chapter 8 Bearded Dragon #4
She’s so tight, the sensation is almost unbearable—hot, silken velvet gripping me, pulling me deeper. I grit my teeth, fighting for control, forcing myself to go slow, to let her adjust.
When I'm fully seated, I pause, giving her time to adjust. My chest is heaving, every muscle locked tight with the effort of not moving.
She feels incredible. Different from before. Tighter. The angle lets me hit deeper, and I can feel her body struggling to accommodate me.
She cries out, a sound of pure pleasure.
I set a slow, deliberate rhythm, deep strokes that fill her completely, grinding my hips against her ass with each inward push.
The angle is perfect, hitting deep inside her pussy. Her moans escalate with each thrust, high and desperate.
“Oh… West… yes… right there…”
"Bossy." But I obey, pulling out slowly before driving back in with more force.
She cries out, her hands clutching the couch.
"Too much?" I slow immediately, concerned.
"No." She shakes her head frantically. "No, it's—more. Do that again."
Relief and raw desire flood through me. I pull back and thrust again, harder this time, establishing a rhythm that's slow but deep, letting her feel every inch.
"You're mine," I growl, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "This—" another thrust, "—is mine. Your first time like this, your body, these sounds you're making—all mine."
"Yes," she moans, meeting my thrusts now, finding the rhythm. "Yours—I'm yours—"
I increase the pace, one hand sliding around to find her clit again, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
“That’s it,” I growl, my control fraying. My thrusts become harder, faster, driven by her responsiveness, by the sheer feel of her.
"That's right. Mine." I'm losing coherence, my control fraying with every thrust. "And I'm going to make you come again. Right now. With me deep inside you."
My fingers work her clit in tight circles, matching the rhythm of my hips. I can feel her getting close, her body tensing, her walls starting to flutter around me.
"West—I can't—I'm going to—"
"Do it." I thrust deeper, harder. "Come on my cock, Jane. Let me feel it."
She shatters with a scream, her entire body convulsing, inner muscles gripping me so hard I nearly black out. The sensation is overwhelming—feeling her orgasm from the inside, every pulse and clench dragging me over the edge with her.
I bury myself as deep as I can go and let go, my own release tearing through me with brutal intensity. For a moment, there's nothing but white heat and the feeling of her body milking me, taking everything I have to give.
When I finally come back to myself, I'm collapsed over her back, both of us shaking, gasping for air.
Carefully, I pull out, immediately missing the connection. She makes a small sound of protest that goes straight to my chest.
"I know," I murmur, kissing her shoulder. "I've got you."
I deal with the condom, then gather her into my arms. She's boneless, her head tucked under my chin.
She makes another sound that might be a laugh. "I can't feel my legs."
"That's the goal." I press a kiss to her temple, smiling against her skin. "First doggy successfully achieved."
"Successfully?" She tilts her head back to look at me, her eyes glazed and satisfied.
"West, I think you just ruined me."
The word "ruined" lodges in my chest like a slapshot.
Good.
Let her be ruined. Let her walk away from here knowing exactly what it feels like when I'm inside her. Let every man who tries after me fall short.
Let this ruin both of us.
Because four days suddenly feels like nowhere near enough time.
"Come on." I shift, scooping her up despite her protest. "Shower. Then bed."
"I can walk—"
"No, you can't." I carry her toward the bathroom, ignoring her half-hearted squirming. "And even if you could, I'm not letting you."
She relaxes against my chest, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my shoulder. "Bossy."
"You like it."
"Maybe." A pause. Then, softer: "Yeah. I do."
I tighten my hold on her, that dangerous warmth spreading through my chest again.
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "West?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not being mad about the gay thing."
I huff a laugh. "I reserve the right to be retroactively furious once my mother hears about it."
"Still," I tease. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did."
"Oh? Tell me why, Hurricane."
"Because you looked miserable. And I didn't want you to have to sit through another one of those conversations."
Something in my chest goes tight.
"Jane—"
"I know. The deal. No feelings. Clean break." She says it like she's reminding herself. "But we're still friends, right? Friends look out for each other."
Friends.
The word should feel safe. Appropriate.
Instead, it feels like a lie.
"Yeah," I say anyway. "Friends."
Later that night, after Jane falls asleep, I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the call between Jane and her sister.
Please let this work.
Because even if I could write her a check—and I could, easily—she wouldn't take it. I know that now. The money has to be earned. Has to come from the job, not from me. Anything else would feel like charity to her. Like pity.
She’s doing all of this—the lies, the sabotage, the risk—because someone she loves needs her.
And I’m helping her do it.
In four days, this ends. She gets paid. She goes back to Boston. Takes care of her sister.
Back to carrying everything alone.
That was the agreement.
Jane shifts beside me, curls closer in her sleep, her hand finding my chest like this is where she belongs. Like she hasn't spent her whole life holding up the world by herself.
Four days suddenly feels impossibly short.
Not enough time to fix anything.
Not enough time to ask for more.
But it’s what we have.
So I stay awake, counting down the hours, and trying not to think about what happens when they run out.