Page 135 of Bottles & Blades

Her pussy fluttering around me. Her orgasmright there.

I reach between us, seeking the hard bud of her clit.

Findingit.

She gasps, moves faster, harder. “Jean-Mi!”

But I don’t stop, just work her tits at the same time I rub at her clit, clinging to the edges of my control as I try to hold off my orgasm in the face of that slick, tight cunt, those bouncing tits, her soft moans, and those determined strokes.

“Honey—” She breaks off on a moan.

“Get there,” I order, sweat beading down my back, my orgasm gathering at the base of my spine, threatening to explode.

She keeps grinding.

I grit my teeth together, keep working her.

“Jean-Mi,” she moans.

Fuck, I’m coming. “Get there.”

“I—”

“Come for me, buttercup,” I rasp, pleasure exploding through my middle, making my hips jerk, my hands and mouth lose focus. “Now.”

Thank fuck, she cries out, pussy clamping down around me, her hips wrenching, strokes losing their rhythm. “Oh God. Oh my God. Oh my fuckingGod.”

We move together and it’s not graceful, not measured.

It’s frantic and uncontrolled, seeking out every last dredge of pleasure from our orgasms.

Until I collapse back onto the blanket and she collapses on top of me.

We lie there for long moments as I catch my breath, as I struggle to coax my limbs to start working again—and then give up and just enjoy the press of her body against mine. She’s limp and relaxed against me, her breathing regular, her skin like porcelain in the moonlight. The wind rustles through the oaks’ leaves, and I listen to the soft hoots of the owls in the distance.

It’s peaceful.

It’s perfect…except when she shivers.

The air is warm for a spring evening, but she’s naked and the breeze is picking up and…

I sigh.

It’s getting late.

So, I coax her to sit up again, help her get dressed then shake out the blanket and wrap it around her before I drag my own clothes on.

We walk through the vines, picking our steps carefully until we reach the location where I parked.

Not strictly a legal spot, but considering I own the place I think I can get away with it.

I hit the locks, sending the headlights flashing, but as we step out of the row, I freeze and turn my head, searching the shadows. I could have sworn there was a flicker of movement the next row over, a glint of something reflective.

“What is it?” she asks when I draw us to a halt, my gaze searching the darkness for that motion, the glimmer of metal.

“Thought I saw something,” I say, drawing us forward again, not stopping until I make it to the car and get her inside. “Hang on,” I order.

She nods.

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