39. Sabrina #2
“Bri, are you awake? I need you.” No natural light threatens the drawn drapes. The outside remains cool and quiet, a juxtaposition to the inferno radiating off him.
“I’m right here. What do you need?” His skin retains a pleasant warmth from the cozy embrace of the sheets and duvet, and his hair, mussed by sleep, possesses a charming disarray that I find so endearing.
The thick dark stubble that used to pepper his jaw is almost a full beard.
It’s silken to the touch and shares his unique taste.
“I need you to fuck me. Don’t go slow. Use me.” He has an arm thrown across his eyes, the other stroking languidly down the length of his rigid erection.
“You want me to drive? You love the control.” Control he’s ready to hand over?
“Maybe it’s time you took some back?”
I cover his stroking hand with my own and slide to the base as his hand reaches the tip.
He’s so hard, so ready. If he wants to give me control, then I’ll take it with both hands; him with both hands.
He’s already had my body, and now he has my heart.
Pushing up to straddle him, my arousal coats his trimmed hair.
I’m so wet, more ready for him than he is for me, if that’s at all possible.
I may not rid him of long-held internal anguish and pain, but I can give myself to him and let him draw what he needs from me.
If that’s orgasm after orgasm, then so be it.
“That’s it, Bri. Sink down onto my cock and ride me hard.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I drag my pussy along his shaft once, twice. His moan is my catnip, and we both need more. “Now, Bri, fuck me.”
Lining the head of his cock up with my entrance, I sink down until I’m flush with his thighs.
“Ohh.” Our mingled moans are the sweetest symphony.
This isn’t business or a contract. This is me accepting him as he is, into my body.
This is him at his most vulnerable. A gift I’m not sure I’ve earned but will treasure regardless.
His hips thrust up to meet my downward strokes until we find a furious rhythm.
“Goddamn, you are perfect. The way you fit around my dick never ceases to amaze me.” Warm hands vice my hips. He guides my movements to a pace he’s happy with. He may have wanted me to drive, but he’s the one with the GPS coordinates.
“Oh my God, Mason, more.”
“Take it all. Your pussy cinches my cock as if they were made for each other.” My hands fall to his chest, the packed muscle rippling under my touch.
Fingertips flex over the dusting of hair and skin I love to kiss and bite when we are in missionary.
Leaning down, I kiss the side of his jaw before he turns his head enough to claim my lips with his.
His kisses are as hot and demanding as the rest of him.
His tongue breaches my mouth and duels with my own.
Everything this man does is precise and planned.
“Ride me harder. Bri, get me there,” he demands, low and sensual.
A plan, or a plea? His upward thrusts increase with intensity and fervor.
The man can fuck. I add a roll of my hips with a forward motion when he’s buried impossibly deep as the veins in his neck pulse with a new fury.
He’s so close. He is right there. I did this; I did this to him with my body. I bring this man undone.
“Bri, fuck. Bri.” He addresses the words into my mouth, our kisses turning hungrier and sloppy. Teeth graze over teeth as our pooled frantic energy erupts into white-hot pleasure coursing with an unrelenting pulse of its own.
“Mason!”
“That’s it, baby. Come all over my cock.
” His filthy words and thrusting dick send me to the precipice before hurtling over.
A sheen of sweat has covered my skin and transferred onto his.
Or his to mine. I don’t know and I don’t care.
Collapsing onto him, spent and satiated, all I can think about is the shelf-life of the arrangement we’re in.
His hand strokes a lazy pattern down my hair from my nape to the base of my spine.
It has the tender casualness of a lover’s caress and a skittering unease of foreboding.
“Thanks,” he says, tapping my backside and sliding me off him and onto the cooling sheets. “I needed that.”
Mason throws back the covers and stands from the bed. His sleepy satiation has vanished, replaced with the mask of steel indifference he wore for too many years.
“Are you okay?” My voice squeaks out like a child’s.
“Never better,” he exhales with a minuscule hint of annoyance.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he moves toward the en-suite.
“I’m going into work today. Meetings with my father, the actual one, not the fake one.
It’s going to be a long and messy day. Stay here.
Draw. Do whatever you do when you’re not doing me.
And make sure you are available and ready for me when I return. ”
In an instant, the mask slips back into place, leaving me without question that I’m supposed to know my place.
At his beck and fucking call. The wall I thought I could dismantle stays steadfast and strong.
He’s reverting to behavior and coping methods he’s relied on for years. Another brick clinks into place.