Page 60 of The Best Kind of Bad

“Just right.”

I thrust a little deeper, fascinated by the way her body arches under mine. “Damn straight, sweet girl. It’s just right. Nobody’s ever going to fill you like this. You’re mine, now.”

Her fingernails dig into my back, and she arches against me when I drive my shaft deeper. I’ve never been one to talk during sex, but she’s bringing something out in me. It’s my darker side, the one I hide behind jokes and an easy smile. And on that basic level, stripped down like that, there’s only thing I want. “I wantyou, baby.”

She buries her head in the crook of my neck. “You’ve got me.”

“I’m going to keep you. Whatever it takes.”

I want to make her feel so good, to reach such a high, that she’d be ruined for any other man. Slipping my hand under her back, I lift her hip, testing the angle until I find the one that makes her gasp. And then I piston into her, relentlessly carrying her higher and higher. “Like that, baby?”

“Yes, yes. It’s perfect.” She’s pliant in my arms, submitting to my touch. “So good. The best.”

That praise sends a flush of pleasure through me, a flair of joy.

I can feel her tensing under me, and then she comes with a surprised littleoh. A tremor works its way through her and her pussy squeezes around my shaft like a vise grip. “Fuck, Marnie.”

Urgency sweeps up through my limbs, gathering in my chest, tensing my core before hurtling through me. My hips thrust forward, burying my entire length so that even my balls are pressed up against her entrance, trying to get inside. My cock releases my pleasure in short, overwhelming bursts. I can feel it in my toes. In the tips of my fingers. In my head and in my heart.

I’m being demolished. Wrecked and rearranged.

This girl is making room for herself in my soul, and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

39.

Marnie

I haven’t forgotten about the age difference between Dusty and me.

Nine years is a lot to ignore.

It comes to me at odd times.

He makes it easy to forget because he’s really pretty mature for someone his age. Steady and kind.

But his friends are young. They’re not bad people, but they act like people in their twenties. Energetic. Optimistic. And so fucking confident. They’re not worn out yet.

They still think they have the answers.

Ha.

I used to think I had it all figured out, too. But the older I get, the less I know. I gravitate towards people with the same philosophy.

Historically, I’ve dated up. Usually ten years in the other direction.

This thing with Dusty is a strange reversal and most of the time it really doesn’t matter.

But what I really appreciate about this younger man is his energy. I woke up in the middle of the night with his long shaft pressing against my thigh. All it took on my part was a little rearranging of limbs and he obliging buried it deep inside me. God, to feel that beast of a man plunging in and out. He knows what he’s doing. Powerful and sure.

He pressed me belly down to the mattress, trapped my thighs between his, and pushed inside, somehow managing to make the fit tighter, making him feel even bigger. From that angle, his cock pistoned against me just right, giving me a climax in an embarrassingly short amount of time. And then, after rocking my world, he tossed the condom and fell asleep again. He sheltered my body against his chest, his hand cupped territorially over my breast.

Mine, he says, and my heart quakes.

My chest squeezes and expands, dancing for this farm boy who came out of nowhere.

He follows me into my dreams, claiming my body and spirit.

I wake, drifting from a dream of being held, to my reality, where his arms cradle my body. He kisses my temple, breathing in my hair, and I can’t help but wonder what the catch is.

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