Page 119 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

When his mouth finally hits the center of me I forget my own name, which is fine, because he makes a point of saying it so I don’t have to.

The next few minutes blur into a kind of fever dream: the rough edge of the desk biting hot against my spine, his tongue so overwhelming I want to claw the paint off the cinderblock, and the impossible, heavy presence of his hands keeping me open, pinned, nothing but touch.

Every time I think I’m about to break, he backs off, pulling the pleasure into a wire taut enough to sing, and every time I whimper, humiliated and frantic, he rewards me by crushing his mouth back onto me, lapping my desperation like he’s starving.

I brace one hand behind me, scrabbling for purchase, the other in his hair, and I don’t recognize the voice that gasps out his name—a broken, crystalline thing coming from somewhere in my chest.

Each time he groans against me, the vibration is a shock, radiating from the slick of his tongue straight down the fuse of my spine like I’m an electric grid and he’s the only storm for miles.

There’s a rush of static behind my eyes, a vertigo that has me clutching the back of his neck until I don’t know if I’m pulling him away or forcing him closer, and either would be a delicious kind of violence.

He works me through it, every muttered “fuck yes” and shivered gasp winding more tightly through the marrow of my bones.

His fingers, slick with me and knuckles scraped raw, dig crescents into my thigh and I want those marks, want to look down tomorrow in the harsh bathroom light and see evidence that this happened, that it was real.

I come again, messier this time, half sobbing, half laughing at the flood of release. It’s not graceful and I don’t care.

He doesn’t look up, just keeps licking until I have to beg, have to fist his hair and plead enough, please, and he finally stops, panting, face slick and jaw trembling from the strain of holding back.

He draws in a shaking breath against my inner thigh and stands, slow, like he’s not sure his knees will hold. The look he gives me is jagged, glassy, wrecked in a way I’ve never seen him.

My heart corkscrews in my chest. I reach for him on instinct, touch his face, run my thumb across the cut of his cheekbone.

He blinks at the contact like it’s unfamiliar, like he’s not expecting tenderness from this side of me, and I almost laugh. Like he didn’t just take me apart and eat the pieces.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasps, and I smile for real, teeth showing.

“Funny,” I manage, “I was going to say the same about you.”

But what I really mean is, Please, again. Please, more.

His hands are everywhere at once. One cupping the back of my head, the other staking a bruising claim at my hip.

He drags me up against him with a need so desperate it makes my vision shimmer. I go gladly, hands finding the buttons at his collar, the knot of his tie, eager, clumsy.

I want every layer gone. Want him stripped down to nerves and heartbeat and all the fault lines I know are there. Skin and mouth and muscle, all hunger and zero shame.

He lets me, lets me tear at the careful construction of his shirt until the buttons scatter across the pockmarked tile, lets me slide my hands beneath the crisp cotton and find the ridge of old scars, the heat of him, the wild stammer of his heart under my palm.

There’s a rawness to his breath when I kiss the dark line of his clavicle, then the pronounced hollow at the center of his throat.

I bite, just to feel him flinch, just to hear his breath stutter, and taste the salt. He cranes into it, almost grateful.

I want him reckless. I want to undo him in a way that leaves him no room for consequences, gives him only impulse and the single-minded need to fuck me until the past is forgotten and the future is irrelevant.

I yank his belt free and toss it; it lashes against the file cabinet with a satisfying snap. My hands map the cut of his hips, the dip at his waist, the fine dusting of hair that leads down, down.

I want to remember every texture, every thermal shift from wrist to ribcage to groin. He’s hot everywhere, so tense it feels like violence.

His cock is already thick and leaking, the taste of me still on his tongue as he lifts my chin and claims my mouth all over again, tongue shoving inside me with a filthiness that makes my pussy contract.

I want to laugh but the only thing that comes out is a sound that hasn’t got a vowel in it, just hunger and its echo.

He tears his pants open, palm bracing the desk so hard I hear the wood splinter under his hand, and in the next second he’s stroking himself, head slick and angry red. He watches me intently.

He spits in his palm, works it once down the shaft, then lines up and pushes in with a single, brutal thrust that rips a shout out of me.

There’s no preamble, no slow glide. He splits me on the first go, and the burn is perfect, exactly what I want.