Page 130 of Broken Trails
It’s… cute. But empty.
Like he’s been living here without ever trulylivingin it. Like he’s never felt safe enough to make it his own. And yet here I am, in his room, in nothing but my underwear. Legs shaky, self-conscious as all fuck, because the man who just growled at me has insisted—no, demanded—that I sit on his face. A groan slips past my lips as I squeeze my eyes shut. This is apparently his pre-race ritual now. And not just some flirty pre-race superstition he jokes about.
No. He means it.
In the lead-up to today, he practised twice. Two unofficial races. Both times, he needed me. Dragged me close and worshipped me like I was part of the engine that kept him running. Like I was his edge. His fuel. His fucking good luck charm.
But this?
This isn’t just him going down on me—he’s done that plenty, with such addictive, reverent devotion that I’ve started fantasising about it in traffic, at home whilst I’m doing literally anything—this is different.
This is submission.
Michael is flat on his back, sprawled out and waiting, arms folded behind his head like the cocky bastard he is. His shirt’s somewhere on the floor, sculpted muscles on full display. Sunlight pours through the curtains, bathing everything in gold. The light hits the curve of his jaw, the edge of his shoulder, the thick lashes over eyes that are dark and burning only for me.
Am here I am, hovering above him, thighs spread, nothing to hide behind. Nowhere to run. He looks like sin in human form. And I feel like a fucking fraud in his bed.
We’ve had sex. He’s seen me naked more times than I can count now. Butthisis different. Just me, about to straddle this man’s face, every inch of me bare with nowhere left to hide. And yeah, of course I’m going to feel shy. There’s somethingdisarming about giving myself over like this, about being seen so openly by a man who looks at me like I’m something he’s starving for.
I shuffle closer, knees hitting the mattress on either side of his chest.
“Hands on the headboard, baby, and lift your hips for me,” he rasps, slapping my ass softly.
“What if I… suffocate you?” I counter, my cheeks burning.
His grin is slow and wicked. “You won’t, Freckles. But what a way to go.”
I snort, biting back the laugh that threatens to betray how nervous I actually am. Heat blooms beneath the surface, crawling up my throat and settling there. He sits up slightly, curls his fingers around my hip, like he’s grounding me. “Do you trust me?”
My chest aches. I nod.
His eyes hold mine. “Then let me have this,” he says. “Let me have you.”
And I do. God, I do. Just like every other time. I inch forward, letting myself settle above him, and his breath fans against my inner thigh, then my pussy, and I nearly gasp. Then, without warning, he pulls me down.
The first stroke of his tongue is devastating. A broken moan rips from me. My hands fly to the headboard, desperate for something to hold onto. My hips jerk forward on instinct, and his groan vibrates through me like a thunderclap.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, head falling back.
Michael doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause to tease or play. He devours me. His stubble scrapes my inner thighs. His tongue licks and sucks with unrelenting focus, like a man starved. Like he won’t stop until I’ve come undone across his mouth. Like he’s imprinting his name into my bones.
“Fuck, yes,” he rasps into me. “You taste like sin, baby. Like this cunt was made for me.”
My thighs quiver against his cheeks, his grip bruising at my hips as he grinds me down harder. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything butfeel. He tilts his head, eyes flicking up. His voice is raw when he speaks again.
“Eyes on me. Watch me while I ruin you.”
I do, and everything else falls away. Any doubt. Insecurity. Gone. All that remains is his mouth, the sharp scrape of stubble, the wet, obscene sound of his tongue dragging through my labia, and the hungry hum vibrating in his chest.
He sucks softly, then harder, until the pressure coils tight in my belly. Each pull makes my spine arch, makes my fingers claw at the headboard. Then he releases me with a filthy pop, the sound of suction breaking in the quiet room. That familiar feeling of ecstasy builds and builds until I finally break.
And when I do—when I fall apart above him—he doesn’t stop. Not until I’m wrung out and trembling, clinging to the headboard, hips twitching from overstimulation. Eventually, he slows. Kisses the inside of my thigh once. Twice. When I manage to climb off him, collapsing beside him in his bed, he drapes an arm across my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Now go get dressed,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple. “You’ve already given me the win.”
I arrive at my parents’ place in a daze. Still reeling from the morning—my legs unsteady, my thighs sore in the best goddamn way. I’d kissed Michael goodbye with shaking lips, gone hometo change, and paced my living room for almost an hour before deciding to bite the bullet.
To come here. To face this.
