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Her blissed-out moans and cries increase. She stops moving, her body tightening all over, pussy squeezing me tight. My balls are ready to explode.
She arches her back, really grinding herself against me now. I admire the hot pink flush staining her skin from chest to cheeks. My tongue’s half-wagging out of my mouth, desperate to taste her hard, plump nipples. As much as this position is satisfying all my caveman urges to show off my strength for her, it’s limiting my ability to get my hands and mouth all over her body.
I search for something she can brace herself against. Door’s no good. I’m afraid I’ll hurt her back when I finally let loose.
Desk. I shuffle over awkwardly. “Behind you. Arch backwards and brace yourself on the desk.”
Still clinging to me, she turns and after a second or two gets the gist of the instructions. She bends backward, releasing my neck to reach for the smooth surface.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” I growl. “Lock those legs around me. I got you.”
“This is some serious Tantric bridge pose,” she huffs between panting little breaths.
I’ve never appreciated all the yoga she does more.
I let my hands roam over her thighs, the curves of her hips and up her sides, stopping to cup her breasts. “Needed to get my hands on more of you.”
“Mmm.”
“You all right?” I use my thumb against her clit in a steady rhythm. Her hips punch up even higher and I lock my arms around her thighs. Her legs kick straight out, doing that crazy shaking thing they do when I get her good. With her head tipped back I can’t see her face. Dumb move on my part. I love watching her eyes roll back when she totally loses it. She’s gripping me so tight, I see stars. Or maybe it’s the orgasm that I can’t hold back another second.
I fuck her furiously fast, thumping into her over and over. Her arms tremble the smallest bit. I lift her higher and move closer to the desk, laying her down.
“Phew.” She gives me a relaxed, dreamy smile. “Worried I was gonna bop my head there for a minute.”
I grit my teeth, my hips pistoning harder and harder. “Fuck.”
Every muscle in my body straining, I throw my head back, groaning and shouting loud enough to rattle the ceiling. It’s the roar of a lion-fucking-his-mate loud.
I come so hard, my knees buckle. I have to release my grip on her hips and brace myself over her, arms planted on the desk. She wraps herself around my body, pulling me closer. Our lips fuse together. It’s like for a few seconds our souls merge with the universe or something. Shelby does stuff to my brain and body I can’t comprehend.
How is it possible that every single time with her ends up being the best sex I’ve ever had in my life?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Shelby
We’re both dripping with sweat and plum worn out but Rooster still takes his time lovingly soaping me up in the shower. After a quick scrub-a-dub, we spend a lot of time playfully drying each other off. Really, more like groping and exploring each other if I’m honest.
I squeeze the rock-solid muscles of his arm. “I think you made up for any missed workouts.”
He lets out a low, satisfied growl.
I’m still tingling all over. I turn toward the sink, intent on brushing my teeth. Rooster presses his big, warm body against my back and wraps on arm around me, resting his hand on my stomach. He stretches forward to clear the fog off the mirror and I can’t help staring at our reflection. In the mirror, he meets my eyes.
“You look so tiny next to me.” He strokes his knuckles over my cheek then hugs me tight, pressing a kiss to my temple. “But you’re so damn strong.”
“I’m little but mighty,” I quip.
“Yes. You are,” he says in a more serious tone than I expected.
I wiggle my butt against the towel wrapped around his lower half. “And I can take one hell of a pounding.”
He rumbles with laughter. “Yes, you can.”
I lean over and start brushing my teeth. Rooster stays close, tracing his fingers along my spine, like he’s too fascinated with me to look away.
“I’m not sure how I feel about ya watchin’ me brush my teeth,” I mumble around a mouth full of minty foam.
“To be fair, I’m staring at your juicy peach of an ass.”
I wrinkle my nose at him in the mirror. His serious expression lifts. He reaches for the heavy rings he usually wears that are resting on the counter. One-by-one, he slips them on his fingers. I turn, and clasp his right hand, bringing it closer to kiss his scarred knuckles. Drawing away, I study the heavy bands of silver encircling his ring and index fingers.
He taps his fists together in front of him. “They serve as biker brass knuckles. Legal in all fifty states.”
