Page 30 of Two Canes, One Cup
Only when I feel like I’m wavering on the edge of orgasmic unconsciousness does he move up my body.
Rolling my knee over, he slides his bare chest along my back until I feel his hard cock pressing between my ass cheeks.
“I made you come like a lover,” he whispers in my ear. “Now I’m going to fuck you like the whore you’re begging to be.”
Lifting my leg over his hips, he rolls his pelvis until the thick head of his throbbing length presses against my soaked entrance.
His palm covers my mouth as he nips gently on the hollow below my ear.
With a single thrust, he buries himself.
I’m glad he catches my cries. He rivals Reece in size, stretching my tender pussy with every stroke.
His ridged tip pounds against that spot inside me that makes sounds turn into colors.
Digging at his thigh, I urge him faster. I want him to join me. Dive into the abyss with me.
And then his fingers touch my swollen clit, driving me to the brink of oblivion.
“I’m going to fill you up,” he growls as I shudder against him. “Then you’ll be mine.”
His movements become jerky when he erupts within me, his groan muffled into my shoulder.
Our breathing levels, and his palm leaves my mouth to settle under me, drawing me tightly to his chest.
“This has to be hell,” he whispers. “To have you and not keep you. I’m your Sisyphus, for I’ll forever be in pursuit of your heart.”
His words make heat bloom through me.
Everything about him outside of this room is control, restraint.
In here, it’s wildly abandoned to his lust.
And I find that…irresistible.
Chapter 14 - Reece
All damn night.
Their muffled moanswoke me up more times than I can count.
Why did it make me hard as a rock knowing what they were doing?
More than once I sat up in bed, debating on just walking into Dean’s room.
I finally abandon any hope for sleep somewhere around six in the morning to get up and stoke the fire.
The storm seems to have passed, and the sun has a little heat to it when I go outside to gather wood.
Focusing some of this frustration into splitting rounds seems to help.
By the time I go back inside with an armful of wood, I’m sweaty and calm.
“Good morning,” Dean says from the sink, filling the French press. He looks clean and dapper, nothing like the way I feel.
All I can do is grunt inreturn.
I take a moment while I stack my load into the box to weigh what I should say.
