Page 9 of Misadventures in Blue
A small, barely there quirk of his lips makes me think he can read my thoughts. And the next thing he does is just as carnal, just as vulgar. He unzips his jeans, pulls out his naked cock, and lets it drop right onto the top of my ass. A heavy, marking weight that tells me I wasn’t wrong earlier about that superlative bulge in his uniform pants.
Without a word, he extracts a condom from his back pocket and tears it open with his teeth—a move I find animalistically, almost violently, sexual—and then rolls the sheath over his turgid length.
I’m grateful for the condom, really, I am. But at the same time, I almost regret it. I almost wish he’d just penetrate me without one—which is patently nonsensical, as I have no doubt a man like Jace Sutton is fucking his way through the greater Kansas City area. Most cops his age are, which is one of the reasons I’ve refused to date any of them after Frazer’s death.
But Jace has bulldozed past all my usual, prudent precautions. Younger man. Fellow cop. And apparently he’s even bulldozed past my common sense about casual sex and protection.
God, I’m fucked in the head.
I can feel the scorching heat of his tip even through the latex as he lazily maps the hollows and folds of my flesh, making everything wet and ready for his invasion.
Then he invades.
The spread of his wide crown into that long-untouched place makes my breath stutter and my fingers curl against the wood, and he’s relentless with it, driving in and in and in, tunneling through my tight, squeezing flesh. He pulls back to the crown, and with a hard hand on my hip and a low grunt, he pierces me all the way in.
He stays just like that for a long moment, my body flush against his hips and his free hand smoothing over the strappy bits of garter belt on my bottom and the rucked-up fabric of my skirt. I can’t imagine how wanton I look like this, how debauched, my skirt shoved up and my cunt stretched—and all of it without foreplay or an inaugural kiss. Without even a word.
I’m so turned on by it all that I think I’ll scream if he doesn’t start moving.
I’m shorter than him by a significant amount, even in the steep Manolo Blahniks, and he nudges my feet back together with him still inside in order to get me at the angle he wants. And then he starts to fuck.
Each pull out to the tip is a thrill of friction, and each shove back in is a sear of pressure and heat. He fucks me unapologetically, thoroughly, shoving and driving inward until I can swear the end of his cock is somewhere in my chest, his hands fisting in the expensive fabric of my skirt to bring me back against him harder, faster.
I look up at the window again just to see him—just to see that tall, sturdy body at work—and find him looking at the same thing. Watching us, still clothed, bucking and sweaty. Two cops seeking a desperate, dirty cure for an ancient ache.
His face like this is spellbinding—his dark brows are drawn together in focus and his full mouth is pressed into a solemn line, and he doesn’t look like a predator who’s caught his prey. He doesn’t look like a victorious male who’s managed to pin a mate. Not yet. I’m not sure what else he wants until his hand gives my ass a quick crack and then just as quickly finds my clit.
Then I know. He wants more from me. He wants me wild. He wants me to come.
I arch, I purr, I twist—his fingers are expert and sure, and they know exactly how to work my flesh, exactly how to circle and press and rub. He watches me carefully in the window, studying my face, and I realize he’s learning what I like, gauging my reactions to what he does.
So he sees the frustrated pout when he touches me gently, the ecstatic gasp when he gets rough again and demands a response from my body.
I’m spanked and I let out laughs of surprised pleasure because who knew that could feel so good? So naughty and invigorating, the contrast of the sparkling pain only serving to highlight the pleasure I’m feeling around his thick erection and under his skillful fingers? And there’s more, so much more.
My nipples are plucked and rolled through my blouse and bra. My hair is wound in his fist and pulled. My asshole is pressed and played with—with ownership, with male prerogative, as if he has no doubt that he has every right to it.
There’s no china doll treatment from Jace Sutton. None at all, and I’m on fire with how much I love it.
My orgasm comes with three years of need roaring behind it—more, twelve years of need, twelve years since I’ve been properly fucked, and even then it still wasn’t like this. It still wasn’t as dirty or as hard or as fundamental. This is how I need to be fucked—how I’ve always needed to be fucked—and I never knew. I never knew until this one-night stand with a young man I have no right taking to bed.
Bed…kitchen table. Whatever.
With a sobbed moan, I feel the orgasm catch fire around the buried tip of his cock, starting in my belly and yanking at my clit and flickering across every single nerve ending I have. He sucks in a breath as the contractions grip his erection, as if my body is trying to milk the come right up his shaft and into my body, and then he lets loose.
Truly lets loose.
His cock swells bigger and harder than ever, and his hips hammer into the curves of my bottom as if he’s trying to wedge his way inside me. I know he wants to come, I know he wants to pump his condom full, and knowing that is enough to set off a second, stronger orgasm inside me.
I let out a soft wail, writhing and kicking my feet as his relentless fucking pins me to the table, and it’s too much, it’s all too much. I can’t handle how viciously my pussy clenches with pleasure. I can’t handle the sensory overload of being screwed so ferociously through it all. I wail and I kick, and he grunts and keeps thrusting, and then he lays his upper body over mine, wraps his hand around my throat, and spears me harder than ever, going so deep that I can feel the hair below his navel tickling my ass and the zipper of his jeans biting the tender skin of my thighs.
In near silence he comes, with only a ragged groan on that first exquisite throb to let me know his control is also shaken, and the scalding heat of his seed is palpable even through the latex. His erection flexes and pulses inside me, doing the job it was made for, and I love the feeling of it so much that I tuck my cheek against my shoulder so he can’t see the delirious grin on my face.
God, I’d forgotten. Forgotten everything, really, but mostly how good it felt to have someone releasing inside me, filling me with heat as their body jerked in pleasure.
He stays bent over me even after his cock goes still, and he brushes the hair away from my ear so he can ghost his lips over its she
ll. And for a minute, I think he’s going to kiss me. Going to shatter the potent fantasy of this magical encounter with some banal thank you or how was it for you?
