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"Anything for you, darlin'," Ryan vows, the drawl in his voice wrapping around me as securely as his arms will soon do. I've spent years building walls, but with every stroke, every whispered endearment, Ryan dismantles them, brick by brick. And I’m willingly undone.
Heat coils low in my belly as Ryan's deft fingers dance along the edge of paradise. I'm teetering on the brink, every caress a whispered promise of what's to come. His touch is both question and answer, and my body responds with an eager yes that reverberates through my very core.
"Ryan," I gasp out, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the thick air of desire surrounding us. He knows. He knows exactly where to touch, how to press, and when to plunge deeper into the well of my arousal.
"Jules," he murmurs back, his voice rough like sandpaper yet somehow soothing against the raw edges of my need. His finger finds that secret place inside me, and he massages it in a slow, deliberate circle. It's as if he's coaxing the climax from me, one languorous turn at a time.
"Please," I beg, unashamed of the need that's clawing its way out of me. My body shakes, a tempest raging beneath my skin as I surge toward that peak.
"Come for me, baby," Ryan commands, his thumb circling my clit now with a relentless pressure that sends me spiraling. My world narrows down to this moment, to the feel of him inside me, drawing out the pleasure until—
"Ryan!" I scream his name as my orgasm crashes over me, waves of pure ecstasy slamming into me, again and again. I'm shaking, coming apart at the seams, and the only thing holding me together is the sound of my name on his lips, spoken like a benediction.
Panting, I watch as Ryan rises—a cowboy sculpted by desire, his blue eyes dark with lust. There's a hunger there, one that mirrors my own, and it sends a fresh shiver of anticipation down my spine.
He reaches for his wallet with a haste that speaks to the urgency thrumming between us. The foil packet appears, and with practiced movements, he frees himself from the constraints of his dress slacks. My gaze lingers on his cock, hard and promising against the tan of his skin. As he rolls the condom down his length, our eyes lock, and something primal ignites within me.
"Ready?" he asks, though it's not really a question. It's an invitation to the next chapter of our story—one written in sweat and moans and the clenching tightness of bodies entwined.
"Always," I reply, my heart racing as he aligns himself with my still-quivering entrance.
And then he's filling me, one hard stroke that obliterates thought and replaces it with sensation. I cry out, not in pain but in profound relief. Every inch of him stretches me, completes me, as he claims me in the most intimate of ways.
"God, Jules," he groans, and I feel him at my core, solid and unwavering.
In this kitchen, on top of Ryan’s passion and love of wood sculpture, we find our rhythm—a dance as old as time, yet as fresh as the connection sparking between us. Each thrust is a word in a dialogue that needs no speech, each gasp an affirmation of the rightness of us.
"Let me hear you, baby," he commands with a roughness that's entirely intoxicating. His blue eyes, darkened now with lust, locks onto mine as if willing me to bare not just my body but my soul to him.
I obey without hesitation, letting my moans rise freely, each one a testament to the depth of my desire. My legs, wrapped around his waist, pull him closer, urging him to go deeper. The unmistakable scent of our arousal blends with the musk of our passion, grounding me to this moment, to him.
"God, yes," I cry, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back, feeling the play of sinew and strength beneath his tanned skin.
"Jules, look at me," Ryan growls, his hands gripping my hips with a possessiveness that should scare me, but instead, it only fuels the fire within.
"More, please," I gasp out, and Ryan responds with an intensity that borders on fervor, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Always more for you, baby," he promises, his voice a rough whisper that sends shivers down my spine.
And I believe him. Because in this moment, with the man who's quickly becoming more than just a fling, I find a truth that's been eluding me—life isn't about boardroom battles or zeros in a bank account. It's about these moments of unbridled passion and vulnerability.
"Ryan."
My fingers claw at his sinewy back, each muscle contracting under my touch. The roughness of his work-calloused hands sends a thrilling contrast to the softness of my own skin, a reminder of his raw masculinity. I'm teetering on the edge, and I know he is too.
"Ryan," I gasp out.
His hips snap forward, a primal rhythm that drives me wild. I dig my nails into his flesh, marking him as mine, if only for this fleeting moment of passion.
"Julia," he groans, my name from his lips like a sacred chant. There's a raw edge to his voice that tells me he's close, so close.
The tension coils tighter within me, and then it snaps. A scream rips from my throat, echoing around the room as pulsating waves of pleasure crash over me. Ryan follows, his own climax tearing through him. He bucks into me one last time, a growl vibrating in his chest as he spills himself inside me.
Our bodies shudder together, and as the trembling subsides, Ryan's weight presses me into the handmade table beneath us, a testament to his skill and passion, not just for woodworking but for... everything.
He collapses, his breath hot and heavy against my neck. Our ragged breathing fills the room, the only sound amidst the stillness. His heart drums a steady beat against my chest.
As he lifts up from on top of my chest, his gaze softens with something that looks suspiciously like tenderness. He brushes a damp strand of red hair from my face, his touch gentle.
