He sets me on my feet by the bed and finds the zipper at my back, and draws it down slowly, knuckles tracing my spine the whole while.
“You sew this?”
“Every stitch.”
“You did a good job.” His mouth grazes my bare shoulder. “But I want to see what’s underneath.”
The dress pools at my feet, and I stand there in my slip and an old instinct fires, arms rising to cover myself, to apologize, to make myself smaller. He catches both my wrists, gentle as anything, and turns me toward the mirror, his cock hard against the middle of my back.
“No,” he says. “Not with me. Not ever.” He looks me over slowly, his expression a mixture of hunger and awe. He bends to kiss my neck, his hands cupping my breasts, my nipples hard peaks under the silky slip. “Mírate.Lookat you. I've been imagining this from memory for months and I didn't do you justice.”
I turn to pull his cut off his shoulders and he lets me, patient under my hands while I map him: the tattoos winding up both forearms, an engine, a compass rose, a name in gothic script. Muscle everywhere, and those big scarred hands exploring my body.
Then the waiting ends. He pulls down the straps of the slip and groans at the sight of my breasts. Holding them, he tongues one nipple and then the next, then licks and sucks until I’m arching off the bed.
He strips me out of the slip and lays me back, kneeling down at the edge of the bed like a man with nowhere else to be in this life, big hands wrapping my thighs and easing them apart.
“Wrench…”
“I told you I was patient.” He kisses the inside of one knee, then higher, unhurried, his beard dragging soft fire up my skin while I twist the sheet in both fists. “Let me show you what it's for.”
Then his mouth is on me and the whole world goes bright. He's slow about it, thorough, ruthless, learning what makes me gasp and then doing exactly that until I'm arching off the bed again with my fingers buried in his hair, saying his name in a desperate voice I've never heard coming from myself. He hums against me, pleased, one heavy arm pinning my hips still, and takes me up and over the edge until I come so hard the room whites out, and even then he doesn't stop, works me through it, murmuring in Spanish against my skin.
“Now,” I finally beg, pulling at his shoulders. “Please, I need you, come here.”
He stands and strips off the rest of his clothes, and my mouth goes dry, because all of him is built to that same unreasonable scale, his cock huge and hard. He retrieves his jeans off the floor for his wallet with an unhurried economy that makes me want to throw a pillow at him.
“You keep that in your wallet?”
He rolls the condom on, eyes on me the whole time. “I was hoping I might get lucky with you, gorgeous. Told you. Patient, but not a saint.”
Then he's over me, braced on his forearms, all that size and heat caging me in, and he nudges against me and stops, and his hand comes up to turn my face to his.
“Look at me, hermosa.”
He pushes inside me slowly, so slow, watching every flicker on my face while my body stretches around him. When he's deep inside we both go quiet, breathing each other in.
“Tell me you belong to me.”
“I’m yours. All yours.” No hesitation left anywhere in me.
He moves, and it’s the same sure lead as the dance floor, and my body follows him the same helpless willing as before, hips finding his rhythm, and he groans something that sounds filthy in Spanish. The thrusting builds and builds, his pace never rushing, hitting some place inside me that unravels me entirely, until I'm clawing his back and whimpering.
Then he rolls, taking me with him without slipping free, and I'm astride him, his hands spanning my hips, his grin wicked in the dark.
“Your turn to lead.”
So I slide up and down on top of him, that massive cock spreading me apart. Slow at first, his hands a steady frame on my waist. This huge man lets me steer him exactly as I please. His thumb finds my clit and circles and the wave of my orgasm gathers under me.
“Come for me,” he says, his voice rough as he thrusts up into me, my breasts bouncing with each thrust. “Let me feel you.”
I shatter. And out of me, at the top of it, at full volume, comes the first honest-to-goodness curse word to leave my mouth in years.
Underneath me, wrecked, Wrench starts to laugh, and then the laugh breaks apart because he's coming too, gripping my hips hard, groaning my name into my throat as I collapse onto his chest.
His hand strokes down my spine. “I’m shocked. Where did you learn to curse like that?”
I giggle. “I stopped when she was learning to speak in case she imitated me.”
