Page 36 of Trade
“Yeah. I want that, too,” he says, no embarrassment, no defensiveness as he shucks his knives and shirt and pants.
“You have to do what I say.”
“All right, Glory.” He grins like I’m cute.
I narrow my eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Whatever you want, Glory.” He settles himself on his knees and peels my coveralls off the rest of the way until I’m naked. I tucked my panties in my pocket this morning. I couldn’t bring myself to wear them a second day, not in their condition.
Dalton cups my calves in his rough palms, his gaze raking down my body, head to toe and back again, always lingering on my face. My lips. My throat. He’s not afraid of meeting my eyes. How is he so blunt and shameless? Is that what living Outside does?
I want that. I want to suit myself, to want what I want without having to make it polite and palatable for public consumption. I lift my bare feet and brace them flat against Dalton’s thick thighs, pressing my soles into the hard muscle. The air feels strange on my pussy, cool but nice.
“I want you to stay right there,” I say.
“Okay.” His hand goes straight to his cock and starts stroking.
A breeze rustles the willow branches, whispers across my skin, and riffles Dalton’s gorgeous, messy hair. I part my knees a little farther and slip a finger between my folds and circle my clit.
“Is that how you like it?” he asks.
“One way.”
“You going to let me eat it?”
“Not for a willow crown.”
He smirks, not at all bothered by my sass. Bennett always said he respects a strong woman, but a smart mouth is a different thing. It’s not strength; it’s disrespect. He said it about other women—Susan Jordan from Human Management in particular—so I rolled my eyes and never took issue with it. It was a warning, though. I see that now.
Dalton, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to feel disrespected at all. “Show it to me,” he says—demands—but with a sparkle in his deep brown eyes.
I let my knees fall all the way apart and use two fingers to open myself up. I’m wet, wetter than I ever get these days. He strokes himself harder.
“Are you going to come in two minutes again?” I ask.
“Probably.” His breath is coming quickly. “I’m going to come all over your pussy.”
“Okay,” I say, even though he’s not asking. He shuffles closer and rests his free hand on my bare waist, right above my hip bone. It warms my skin like the seed warmed my palm.
He focuses so hard on my finger as I circle my clit. I ease the skin back so the button pops from the hood, and he groans. “Put your finger inside.”
“Say please.”
“Please,” he says immediately and lets go of his cock for a second to grab my fingers and urge them toward my slit.
We tangle for a second until I say, “Leave off. You’re in the way.”
“My bad,” he says and chuckles, completely unabashed.
I grin back and slide my middle finger into the hole still swollen from yesterday and then go back to my clit to smear the wetness before the good feeling I’ve built can ebb too much.
“My turn,” he says, knocking my feet off of his thighs. Before I can say yes or no, he shuffles forward on his knees, wedging my legs wide open. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and then pushes them into my pussy, gently but with absolutely no hesitation. My pussy spasms, and he groans, jerking himself faster.
“Don’t come yet,” I pant. “I’m getting close.”
“Can’t wait,” he says, grunts, and comes all over his hand. His body seizes, every muscle tensing, but he doesn’t stop fucking me with his drenched and sticky fingers. I buck my hips until he hits the spot I want, and I moan.
Our eyes lock.
