Page 118 of Broken Trails
Words elude me, only my shattered breath leaving my mouth.
“Tell me to stop.” His words hit me with a weight I recognise. He’s said them before, the same quiet challenge wrapped in a promise he won’t cross a line I don’t want him to.
“Don’t. Please.” The answer leaves me without hesitation, no room for doubt. Because I want this. Him. So I let my legs fall open beneath him, and he pushes in slowly.
A strangled moan rips from both of us as he stretches me open inch by inch, the ache sharp and addicting, the pressure curling up my spine like fire licking skin. My fingers claw into the sheets, every muscle tensing as he presses deeper, filling every tight, pulsing inch.
“Fuck, Zoe,” he grits, voice hoarse with restraint. “Look at you. Look at this greedy cunt swallowing my cock.”
A moan stutters out of me as my hips tilt instinctively, needing more. He watches me with wild eyes, jaw locked tight as the last inch disappears inside. Once he’s fully buried, a shift takes hold—something dark, hungry, and unrelenting.
“Tell me if it gets too much, baby.”
Then he lets go.
Each thrust is deeper, rougher, his hips rolling with practised force that punches stars behind my eyelids. My back arches into him as he palms my breasts, thumbs grazing my nipples before his mouth follows—biting, nipping, lavishing. My jaw. My throat. My chest.
“Harder,” I gasp, breath catching on the edge of a cry. I grab his hand, dragging it up to my throat. “Don’t stop. I need all of you.”
His hand settles there with a groan. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, eyes blown wide, awe washing through him. “You’re unreal.”
I don’t care that I’m exposed, that my stomach creases with every movement. He sees everything and still looks at me like I’m untouchable. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs against my skin. “So fucking perfect for me.”
Without a word, he pulls out, hands rough as he flips me over onto my knees. My cheek hits the pillow as his palm meets myass with a firm smack, fingers gripping my hips before one hand threads into my hair and tugs me upright.
A gasp tears out of me as he presses in again, this time deeper, the angle sending shocks through my entire body. His chest brushes my back as his lips find the base of my throat, hot breath skimming skin.
“There,” he growls. “Right fucking there.” He releases his grip on my hair, letting it tumble down my back in damp waves as I fold forward, bracing myself on trembling forearms. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes through the room, lewd and unfiltered. His rhythm is relentless, but it’s the way he touches me that undoes me completely. His hands never stop—roaming, gripping, smoothing down my back before sliding over the curve of my ass, fingers tracing the dip of my spine like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
“You feel that?” he rasps, one hand spreading my ass cheeks wider. “Taking me so deep, baby. So fucking tight around me.”
A whimper escapes my throat, lost in the sheets. Then his fingers slip around, pressing firm where I’m already throbbing. “Oh—fuck.”
He circles my clit with slow, devastating pressure. Controlled. Focused. Like he knows exactly how I’m about to fall apart and wants to feel every second of it.
“Fuck, fu-ck—” My voice breaks. “I’m coming—don’t stop, I’m—” My whole body seizes, pleasure ripping through me in sharp, hot waves. My thighs shake. My breath punches out of me as I clench around him, pulsing with every contraction, every stroke.
“I’m right there with you,” he rasps, and thrusts once, twice more, and then he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside the condom with a hoarse shout of my name.
The room stills, thick with heat and sweat and the scent of sex.
I collapse into the mattress, hair clinging to my face, chest heaving, body boneless. He folds over me, arms braced on eitherside as his forehead presses to the back of my shoulder, lips ghosting across sweat-slick skin.
We’re sticky, breathless, ruined.
But it’s the way he murmurs my name again that makes my chest ache. And somewhere between the silence and the aftershocks, I whisper his name back, tasting it on my tongue like something I’ll never stop craving.
35
The Kind of Love We Make – Luke Combs
The sheets cling to my lower back, soaked in sweat and tangled at my hips, but I don’t move. Not when she’s lying like this—one arm thrown over my stomach, one leg draped over mine, her cheek pressed to my chest. I swear I can still feel her around me.
My cock gives a half-twitch at the memory, even though we’re both wrecked.
It’s just after two-thirty, and we haven’t stopped touching each other since the first time I sank into her hours ago. Round one was all desperation—loud moans, tangled limbs, that first high crashing into us like a bloody freight train.
Then came round two on the couch. Slow but rough while she straddled me, hips grinding, hair sticking to her neck, begging me not to stop. She said it felt like I was splitting her in two. I nearly came right then.
