Page 14 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

I’m painfully hard. My balls ache with a thick pressure. A vicious demand to bury myself hilt-deep inside her. To stretch her walls. To fill her with my seed and mark her permanently.

But not here. Not in the dirt.

The agonizing restraint is a physical torture. A fire burning my muscles from the inside out. I won’t take her against a wooden box in the cold. She gets the honey shed. She gets my undivided focus in the only sanctuary she ever built for herself.

But I need to feel her. I need to know how wet she is for me.

I reach down. Grab the bunched canvas at her waist.

Shoving past the thin cotton of her underwear.

The heat of her pussy hits my hand like a furnace.

She’s soaking wet. Drenched. The slick coats my fingers the second I find her. The wetness soaks the cotton of her panties. Physical proof of her surrender.

I find the hard, swollen bud of her clit.

Press my rough thumb against the hood.

I hold it there. No movement. Just the brutal weight of my hand. Letting her feel where my touch lives now. My free hand slides up the canvas of her suit and grips the back of her neck. Anchoring her. The bees crawl in lazy lines across my forearms.

She whimpers. Tries to push her hips against my hand to make me move. I don't.

I make her wait. I make her feel the weight of my hand, my thumb pressing the swollen nub of her clit, skin to skin. I make her body learn what it means to be held still by me.

Then I move.

I press down. A heavy pressure. No penetration. I refuse to slip my fingers inside her walls. I refuse to cross that line until I can give her everything at once.

I just rub the clit.

Fast, hard, tight circles. Pushing the slick over the swollen bundle of nerves.

"Alas," she sobs out. My name. A desperate, broken prayer.

"Take it," I command. "Take what I give you."

My fingers slide through the slick coating her folds. Soaked. Drenched. The wet, slapping sound of my hand on her pussy is filthy in the cold morning. Every motion of my thumb pulls a fresh wave of her arousal out of her body. The slick coats my knuckles, the inside of her thighs, the canvas of her suit pressed against my forearm. The scent of her sex blooms in the air between us—dark, musky, animal. It mixes with the warm clover honey and the scorched pine smoke. It’s the most filthy, sacred thing I’ve ever inhaled.

"You don't get to cum quietly," I breathe against her mouth. "I want them to hear you. I want every man on that trail to hear what belongs to me."

I grind my cock against her thigh. Pumping my hips in time with the rapid circles of my thumb. The rough fabric scraping against her leg. The agonizing friction driving me insane. Precum leaks from my cock, a hot, sticky drop staining the inside of my jeans.

The scent of her arousal fills the narrow space between the hive boxes. A dark, musky, intensely feminine scent. It mixes with the raw clover honey and the smoke from the cold smoker. It’s the most intoxicating drug I’ve ever breathed in. It unmakes me. It makes the beast in my chest roar for blood and possession.

She thrashes against the wood. Her legs trembling.

I keep the pressure unyielding. Working her clit with relentless, mechanical precision. Spreading her slick over her folds. The wet, slapping sound of my fingers against her soaked pussy echoes under the hum of the bees.

"Mine." I grind my hips forward again. Crushing her against the box. "You hear me? Mine."

"Yes." She gasps it out. A submission. "Yes."

She tips over the edge.

Her body bows outward. Her spine arching off the wood. A violent, shattering climax breaking through her muscles. She cries out, a loud, high wail that bounces off the timber windbreak.

Her pussy clenches aggressively. Spasming hard against the heel of my hand. Pumping more hot slick over my fingers.