Page 3 of Lost Trust

She looks like a goddess riding my cock in the middle of the arena like a fucking rodeo queen.

“Fuck, your pussy feels so good stretched tight round me.” I pant as she starts moving faster.

I sit up, grasp her hips and start pounding into her as her cries grow louder and more desperate. My cock’s throbbing, and I can feel her nails sink into my shoulders as I pump harder and harder.

When I think I can’t hold on any longer, her sweet heat tightens around me, and my name explodes from her lips.

I take her mouth with mine to absorb her cries, and I let go as she spasms around me. Her warm release leaking down her thighs and soaking the front of my jeans.

I’ve had plenty of sex. I’ve had some really fucking good sex, too. But nothing has ever come close to this.

Nothing.

I hold her close, pressing kisses to her eyelids, her nose, her lips, until her breathing finally steadies.

Rain begins to fall around us, light and cool. The chill air against her sweat-dampened skin makes her shiver, and I pull her tighter against me.

I hold her there for another few minutes before finally getting us both to our feet. I take care of the condom, adjust my jeans, then help her back into her clothes. I scoop up my flannel, snap it through the air a couple of times to shake off the dirt, and pull it back on.

Then, before she can protest, I scoop her off her feet and toss her over my shoulder.

She squeals, laughter spilling into the empty arena as I give her ass a playful smack.

“Damn,” I say, grinning. “That was even hotter than my fantasies.”

I carry her across the highway to the roadside motel, both of us laughing like a couple of damn fools.

We shower off the night, then crawl into bed and fall asleep naked, tangled in the sheets and wrapped around each other.

I wake in the motel and reach for her without thinking.

My hand finds nothing but cold sheets.

My eyes snap open.

She’s gone.

Fuck.

Royce

Five Years Later

The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears long after I leave the dirt.

It’s funny how thousands of screaming fans can fade into white noise the second the adrenaline starts wearing off.

I roll my shoulder once as I disappear beneath Dickies Arena toward the locker rooms, biting back a grimace before anyone notices. I try to lift my arm as soon as I’m away from the cameras. The joint pops. Not the satisfying kind either. The kind that sends a sharp bolt of pain down my arm and leaves my fingers tingling.

Son of a bitch.

That last bull had every intention of pulling me apart limb by limb and scattering my pieces across the arena floor.

Mission accomplished.

I flex my hand to make sure everything still works. It does. Mostly. And that’s good enough for me. I’ve ridden through worse.

The trainers try to wave me over, but I flash them a grin and keep walking.