Page 11 of Hungry Hearts

“God, no.” I dig my nails into his shoulders and my heels into his ass. “I need you to move inside me.” I lift my hips and rock against him.

He covers my mouth again with his as he slides out ever so slowly. We both moan with agony and pleasure. His tongue matches the movements of his cock buried deep inside me. My body is his for the taking. I dig in deeper, wanting, needing him to ride me harder.

“Fuck, baby. You feel so good. Your cunt can’t stop sucking, begging for my cock. You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.” His thrusts become more erratic, before he tears his lips away from mine and sits up, pulling out of me completely.

“Ryder?” I reach for him but he’s sitting back on his heels, his hands tugging at his hair.

“Fuck, Angel.” His gaze drops to the condom next to me. “I...fuck. I got carried away.” He reaches for the condom and sheaths himself. “Do you still want to—”

I reach down for his cock and direct it to my entrance. “Yes, Ryder. Please, don’t stop.”

The man doesn’t stop surprising me with his blend of crude language and sensitivity to my needs. My wetness makes it easy for him to slide in and out. I loved feeling him bare, but a condom is the smart move. I haven’t told him I have an IUD to help with my period cramps, and I have no idea what his sexual history is.

The fact that I didn’t even think about Ryder entering me bare, even with the unopened condom next to me, tells me how far gone in sexual bliss I am.

His rough hands massage my breasts as he thrusts inside me, then he lowers his mouth, sucking and biting my nipple. The pain is pleasurable, and I clench once again around him.

Ryder curses, then pulls out of me again. Before I can complain, he has me flipped on my belly and pulls me to all fours then buries his cock deep inside me again.

“Oh, God.” I’m at a loss for words and would talk dirty to him if I could. Not that I know how, but he makes me want to learn.

He reaches for my clit and rubs me hard. “I want to feel you come on my cock, Angel.”

Angel. I would laugh at the term of endearment if my body wasn’t ready to combust in another epic orgasm. What we’re doing is hardly God approved. It’s not something I’d ever do, which makes me feel dirty and sexy.

“Fuck. You feel fucking amazing. I’m not going to last. I need you to come.” He bites on my shoulder gently, one hand teasing my clit as the other reaches for my breast. He pinches my nipple and clit at the same time, and I push my ass into him, begging for a harder pounding while I climax around him.

Sweat from my back and his chest mingle, and I hear the slap of his skin against mine as I ride out my orgasm. I’m not fully down from it when he pulls out and flips me over again. Hooking both arms around my legs, he shoves them to my armpits so I’m spread open for him while he rams into me with a fierceness I’ve never experienced. I watch his huge, glistening cock hammer in and out of me.

The headboard rattles against the wall and our grunts and moans fill the air. He lowers his head and I lift my eyes to his heated stare. Our eyes stay locked on each other as he clenches his molars and hits me so deep with his cock as my eyes grow big and wide watching him ride through his orgasm.

When he collapses on top of me, I let my legs fall to the side again. I’m spent. Exhausted. Numb. Alive. Tingling. Revived.

And I can’t wait to do it again.

CHAPTER THREE

We didn’t close the curtains last night and the morning sun warms my face. How fucking cliché is it to say that was the best sex I’ve ever had? I rode her hard, at her request, and I’d barely had time to recover when she asked how many condoms I had in my wallet.

The second time started out slow, but my vixen kept begging for faster and harder, and being the woman pleaser I am, I complied. I roll my shoulders out and reach across the bed for my angel-devil but find the bed empty.

It’s unlike me to do sleepovers. I’m not completely opposed to them if it’s a woman I’ve been with before, after I’ve been able to decipher if she’s going to be a clinger or not. I stretch my legs and roll my ankles as I blink away the sleepy seeds—damn, I slept hard—and scan the room for her.

I don’t hear signs of her in the shower and her pile of clothing on the floor is missing. I jump out of bed and turn on the lights in the bathroom. Her toiletries are gone. “Fuck.” I spin around and find the spot where her suitcase sat last night is empty as well.

I pull at the nape of my neck and pace around the hotel room. After the handful of orgasms I gave her, why would she sneak out in the middle of the night? Or rather, since I was still fucking her hard at two-thirty, the wee hours of the morning.

This doesn’t happen. I know how to please a woman, how to rock her world and have her begging for more. They don’t walk away from me. I walk away fromthem.

Fuck. Doesn’t that make me sound like a narcissistic asshole? I’m not, at least I don’t think I am. Knowing you're good at something—sex and cooking, in my case—and being self-aware of your good looks doesn’t make someone a narcissist. Treating others like they’re shit and you’re the best, yes.

That’s not how I operate. I’m always upfront with women before I sleep with them, letting them know I’m not a fan of cuddles, sleepovers, or second dates. Post-coital cuddling for a few minutes until we catch our breaths, sure. The few times I’ve allowed a sleepover, it was only because we hadn’t stopped fucking until the sun came up and we were both sleep deprived, needing a nap before the woman went her way.

Last night was different. We fucked, did it again at a slower, longer pace, then fell asleep with me spooning her most perfect ass. An ass I wanted to take a bite of but I didn’t want to scare her.

When I first saw her at the bar last night, I knew she was either running, hiding, or mourning. Her sad eyes drew me in, then it was her mouth, then it was her wit. There are layers to her, and layers usually scare the shit out of me. Especially when I sense sadness buried not too far under the surface.

I’m not a serious guy. When a woman starts to show feelings and emotions, I end things with flirtatious charisma, letting her know how sexy I find her, and that the sex was off the charts—yeah, my cheesy go-to catchphrase—and that I’m not in the place where I’m ready to settle down. I charm her, tell her she can do better than me and that she deserves a man who will not only worship her body but also her mind.

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