Practice made perfect, I supposed. And I tried to linger on that as little as possible.
He moved down my body, shoving my legs wide apart to accommodate his hips, and lined us up, breast to groin.
I craned my neck forward to watch as his tip found my entrance, and he nudged in that first delicious inch.
It’s been way too fucking long, I thought to myself.
And that was my last coherent thought for a very long time.
He shoved in, slowly at first, shifting his hips to work himself against my soft flesh. I heard the noises that left my throat as though they were coming out of somebody else as my soft flesh welcomed him inch by slow inch.
It took forever for him to push inside of me, but I wouldn’t have rushed that part if I could, watching as each delicious centimeter of his shaft disappeared into my sex.
I clenched around him, my cunt sucking him in so earnestly and intensely that he cursed and praised me in equal parts every second that he progressed.
It was a shock as he finally, at last, about fucking time, shoved fully into me, buried to the root.
The air punched hard out of my lungs at the brutal impact as he hit home.
I’d never been so full. That was a fact.
I took in this new foreign fullness with great heaving breaths that brought my sensitive chest up to rub against his slick hard one, then drop down and away again with each rough inhale, exhale.
“What in the holy fuck,” he muttered succinctly.
I wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement, but regardless, I had nothing to add. That summed it up for me, as well.
And then, then, oh my God, then, he started to move, dragging out of me with big, jagged pulls, it taking a few of those pulls to have only the tip of him inside of me again.
He paused briefly there, at just the point where I felt so helpless that I lost it.
Just lost it. Sobbing, pleading, begging him to move, to come back inside of me, to fill me up entirely.
And he was no sadist, thank God. He obliged right away, ramming back in with one long heave, then yanking out again, faster now, smoother with every movement as my body learned to accommodate his size, accepting the length and girth of him like it’d been made for just this purpose.
There was something so simple and profound about that first mating. He occupied an empty place inside of me, literally and figuratively, a lonely space that I hadn’t known needed filling.
It was beautiful and riveting. I didn’t want it to end, but had to fight not to finish too quickly.
He drove into me, again and again, his thrusts rough to the point of brutal.
I’d never been into rough sex.
Well, I’d never tried it, but I hadn’t thought I was into it.
I’d thought wrong.
How could I be so wrong about myself? How could I not know about a need like that until it was given to me in its entirety?
And that need, that need, it swallowed me whole.
I needed this like I needed air. Needed someone to fill me so acutely, so completely, mercilessly invading me, over and over, pounding me into the mattress, taking absolute, indisputable ownership of my body until I couldn’t say where he began and I ended.
Needed it so much, I couldn’t stop begging for it.
And he gave it to me, everything I begged for and more, rutting into me with mindless abandon, pounding in and out, in and out, faster and faster, harder, and still, impossibly, harder, until screaming, I burst.
My orgasm didn’t just surprise me. It assaulted me. Tore through me and broke me into a million twitching pieces.
One big hand clawing at my hips, he pumped into me four, five more times, then planted himself deep, to the root and came.
I watched as the chill at last left his eyes. So many things rushed in to replace that consuming coldness of his.
Addictive things that let me know somewhere deep down he was as affected as I was.
Hunger. Admiration. Desperation. Lust. Wonder. Need. Abandon. Madness.
It was beautiful to watch, the way he changed in those brief moments of bliss.
Beautiful and dangerous.
I’d do a lot to watch him change like that, to get even the briefest glimpse of that other side of him. The need was powerful to the point of self-destructive, especially considering the fact that I barely knew him, and what I did know only seemed to point toward the fact that he was a wild thing that was not even close to being tamed.
I was still reeling, still completely caught up in what had happened mere seconds ago, but not him. He was up, standing, peeling off the used condom, tossing it into the closest wastebasket, then pacing the floor at the foot of my bed, eyes intense on my limp form.
No, wait, not pacing . . .
Like a lion, his narrowed eyes on me.
I was his prey, and he was ready to pounce.
“Is everything all right?” I asked him, my voice hoarse like I’d been screaming.
Had I been screaming? Had he literally made me scream?
Oh yeah. Shit, he had.
It was an embarrassing thought, and I let my mind shy away from it, even as the sound of those desperate cries still echoed in my mind.
“All right?” he mused, his tone low, voice more road-worn gravelly and rough than ever. “Yeah, I’m all right.”
I blinked at the way he said it, though I couldn’t read him well enough to know what to make of it.
His lip curled up like he was annoyed. He reached an arm up, running it impatiently over his short-cropped hair.
Why did every move he made turn me on? Every minuscule shift of his body made mine respond, breasts tightening, sex clenching.
He elicited reaction without trying, controlled me without even touching.
My eyes ran down his ripped to within an inch of its life body, moving over each mark and scar. I found those marks to be fascinating and beautiful. He didn’t wear them like they were flaws, and so they weren’t. If it wasn’t so obvious what they were, I thought I could have been convinced that he’d been born with them all.
I knew better than to ask, I knew the answer, but I’d have loved to photograph him.
The artistry of his hard, massive, tortured body needed to be captured, even if its owner never could be.
I shook off the thought. I couldn’t think things like that. I barely knew this man, so why on earth would I want to capture him?
He’d never be mine. I knew it instinctively, and so I didn’t let myself even wish for it.
My eyes widened as they finally made it down to his spent cock.
No, not spent. Hard and getting harder, though I knew he’d gotten off when I had.
That was when I really started to appreciate the younger man thing. My husband hadn’t taken good care of himself for a good decade before we’d split, and the softer he got, the softer his dick had gotten with him.
It’s funny how sometimes you don’t realize how much you need a thing before it’s right in front of you. And suddenly, I needed that hard, tireless, randy, young cock like you wouldn’t believe.
I licked my lips.
“How old are you?” my mouth asked him, even while my brain didn’t actually want to know.
I mean, it was a little late for regrets.
He scowled, like really scowled, and on him that was a scary thing. He was intimidating enough when he smiled.
When he scowled he looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he was a man who got what he wanted.
“Who cares?” he shot back. This was clearly as sore a subject for him as it was for me.
“I care,” I answered softly, but more because I thought I should care, thought I should ask, thought I should need to know.
Really, though, I’d have just as soon avoided knowing. My level of cougardom on this felt pretty irrelevant at that moment, all things considered.
“Twenty-five,” he said, tone abrupt.
I’d been hoping for a higher number. The higher the better, really.
“Not much older than my firstborn,” I said tightly.
He didn’t like that, as in really didn’t like it, going by the sudden and mean twist to his mouth.
Well, I didn’t like it either, but it was still the truth.
“What the fuck does that matter?” he asked.
It mattered, of course it did, but I didn’t have a chance to vocalize an answer, as it was clearly a rhetorical question, because he was on me, kissing me again, fisting a condom on and fucking me again, between one gasp and the next.
Good. Even though I’d brought it up, I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it any time soon. We clearly had better things to do.
I took his weight on me, his hardness in me, with a soft, needy moan. It felt so fucking good, like the first time hadn’t even happened, like I was as hungry for him as I had been not an hour before, with over a year’s worth of celibacy under my belt.
He was holding my wrists above my head again, needing only one hand to do so, the other palming my breasts, assaulting the soft flesh of my chest with his hand while his cock assaulted the soft flesh of my cunt in desperate earnest.
It was faster that time, as though he’d used all of his patience with the first mating. He sucked the tip of one straining tit into his mouth while his free hand snaked down and started working my clit, bringing me over so fast that it caught me off guard, my breath sobbing out in one long, “Heeeaaaath.”