Page 39 of The Best Kind of Bad

Her legs squeeze together, clamping down on my shaft. I groan, mesmerized, as she moves my hand from her hip to the apex between her legs. My fingers slide along her center, dipping in at the middle. She rocks her hips against my hand, dragging my palm across her clit, plunging my cock between her soft thighs. Burying my face in her neck, I thrust my hips and my hands in time with each other. She’s so wet and I’m intentionally messy about the way I touch her, making her thighs slippery.

“You like it this way, baby?” I ask, growling into her neck.

She nods, her voice shaky. “I’d rather have your cock.”

“Maybe later. If you’re good.” I say, voice unintentionally dropping low. “Reach down and hold on.”

She immediately obliges, wrapping her small hand around my head, letting the shaft push through the ring of her fingers, only to disappear again.

She tightens her grip and I grunt in pleasure. “Good girl.”

This is, without a doubt, the best hand job I have ever received. It defies imagination, and I’m a pretty creative guy when it comes to things like this. My shaft is like a steel bar and my balls are growing heavy. I need her to come before I do.

I bury two fingers inside her, running my thumb over her clit in determined strokes. She whimpers, bucking against my hand, wiggling that perfect ass over my hips. Her hips twitch, and then a shaky sigh slips off her lips. Her pussy clamps down on my fingers and that’s all the permission I need to stop holding back. I fuck her wet thighs, tensing and coming with a muted roar.

She’s melted back against me, chest rising and falling like she just ran a sprint. “I hope this quilt wasn’t some family heirloom.”

“Uh…”

“Probably will need to be dry cleaned.” There’s laughter in her voice. “You can do the explaining.”

I roll back, taking her with me with a laugh. She turns in my arms, giggling. Tucking her head under my jaw, she sighs. “I suppose we better get up.”

“Do we have to?”

“Ask your friend.”

I move my arm, realizing we’ve been joined by a very antsy Labrador retriever.

She glances at me. “I bet he needs to potty.”

“Okay, okay. I’m getting up.”

I help her upright, sitting up behind her. She finds her panties under the coffee table, but is struggling to locate her pants and tank top. I tug my jeans on, watching her search. Things were pretty hectic the night before. I have a vague memory of chucking the damn things. It’s fun watching a half-naked Marnie search for her clothes, but finally I relent, tossing her my t-shirt. “Just wear this for now.”

She accepts it without complaint. I liked the half-naked version, but I alsoreallylike seeing her with my shirt on. It’s visual evidence of the possessiveness growing inside me.

I follow Ed up the stairs, letting him outside so he can do his business.

Marnie is in the kitchen, still wearing my shirt and her panties and that’s it. Sauntering in, I let my hand skim her ass on my way by. I start coffee while she digs in the fridge. “I’m going to have to clean this thing out.”

Her lips twist as she pulls out a container. Whatever is in there has grown fur.

“Do we need to go back to the barn to get breakfast?”

“I bought groceries yesterday. I’m not a complaint animal.”

A little bubble of hope rises in my chest. I didn’t even see her leave yesterday, but if she decided to get groceries, she must have plans to stay for a while.

She pulls out a carton of eggs and a jug of milk. “French toast?”

I grin. “That is one of the few things I know how to make.”

Her lips quirk up. “You’re cooking?”

“You need to be rewarded.”

She comes to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “How good is this French toast of yours?”

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