Page 53 of Sexting the Cowboy
“I feel it, you know,” I begin. “Not just the way you come on my cock. But that little rough patch inside of you. That magic spot that makes you purr when I do this.” I arch myself against her just right, and sure enough, she purrs. I hold there, then rock back and forth just an inch at a time to keep her revving. “Your body is quickly becoming my favorite playground, baby.”
“Keep playing,” she says, voice tight.
That tone says she’s close, but her body’s been screaming it the past ten seconds. “You’re almost there. Right near the edge. I like keeping you there. Like feeling you want something from me.”
“Please,” she hisses. Her hips angle back, trying to take what I’m not ready to give.
“Doing that’ll only make me slow down.”
She whimpers and holds still.
“Next time, I’m bringing the rope to tie you down.”
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“I’ll keep you tied up, and make you come on my tongue…on my fingers…on my cock…on whatever electric boyfriends you have in here. I’ll keep at you for hours and hours until you forget your name.”
“Please, yes, god, don’t stop!”
“Come on my cock, baby. Make me feel it?—”
Her sounds are guttural things, not at all ladylike, and I memorize each one while I pound her from behind and circle her clit with my fingers. There’s no telling how many times she comes. But I know she’s finished when she fidgets and gasps, “Fuck, sensitive!”
I take my fingers from her equation, roll her onto her back, and slide into her extremely wet pussy. Her body arches up to me, meeting me thrust for thrust, until her green eyes roll back as she comes again and pulls me over the edge with her. Our mouths meet, more a promise than a kiss, and I drink her sounds like they will cure my ills.
15
ANNIE
The fairgroundsat this hour feel like a half-remembered dream—everything familiar, everything softer. The sky is pale and undecided, the color of a bruise that never quite forms. A single gull circles like it took a wrong turn two states ago. The fans in the medic tent tick as they swivel, pushing warm air from one side to the other like they’re bored of their own job. The ground is powder, not yet churned to paste by boots and spilled lemonade.
For once, it’s quiet enough to hear my own thoughts. Which is probably why my mind is a blank.
No, that’s thanks to Brick. That man…
Mac slips through the tent flap like a secret with a grin. She’s got two coffees in a tray and a camera bag bumping against her thigh, hair in a knot that looks effortless. She puts the tray down on the folding table and slides one cup toward me. “Morning, doctor. Bribery for your soul.”
“Sold that years ago,” I say, but I take the cup with both hands. The lid is warm and the smell is dark and sweet, the kindthat makes your shoulders unclench before you even swallow. “You’re a good person.”
“Tell my mother.” She drops into the chair opposite mine and crosses one ankle over her knee, watching me over the rim as I take a long drink. “Okay. With Jaden absent, we have a window.”
“For what? Inventory? I love inventory.”
“For gossip.” She looks me over. “And a wellness check, because you are glowing.”
“I’m sweating.”
“You’re glowing,” she repeats, sing-song, and points with two fingers at my face. “This is the kind of shine you can’t buy in a bottle. So. Who?”
“Who what?” I peel a piece of tape off the edge of a suture kit and stick it to my thumb because fidgeting looks better when it’s productive.
“Don’t make me get clinical. I will start using the word oxytocin, and no one wants that at sunrise.”
I take another sip, try to keep my mouth from curving. It has a mind of its own. Kind of like Brick last night.
She leans in, elbows on her knees, eyes bright. “Come clean already.”
“You first,” I counter. “Some of us have memories and recall a camera-wrist that was in need of treatment.”
