Page 40 of Dumped for a Christmas Tree Farmer

I groan, my back arching off the mattress.

“Because I’m going to give it to you. God, this pussy was made for me.”

He dives back down, lapping rhythmically with the flat of his tongue, his fingers pulsing inside me.

He lifts up, his broad frame blocking the light of the window like a solar eclipse. Blinding, but I can’t look away. The tight muscles stretch across his chest, defined, hard, strong. God knows that only real work built a man like this.

He grips his cock, pulling his boxers down as his hands grip the back of my knees, yanking me hard to the edge of the bed. He rolls on a condom, lining himself against my center; he inches himself in. Thick muscle pushes through as my own muscles fight against the stretch.

“Mav, you’re too big . . .”

“Nah, you can take it, greedy girl. Relax for me.”

“I can’t relax when you’re trying to push the winner of a giant zucchini contest into me,” I grumble, spreading my legs a little wider.

He huffs out a laugh, the quirk of his lips lifting as he pushes in another inch.

“We’re halfway, Indigo.”

Halfway?

Thank God he used my full name; the deep growl has my pussy opening up for it.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He pulls back before thrusting in lazy, shallow pulses. My walls constrict, getting used to the intrusion.

He slips in and out, inching closer and closer to bottoming out. Lifting my foot to his shoulder, he dips his head to bite around the soft flesh of my calf.

“You ready?”

I nod, biting my lip.

With my nod of assurance, he thrusts one sharp slap and my sex squeezes around his hard length. I barely have a second to breathe before he’s pulling back and thrusting in again. My back arches, my tits jiggle until his rough palm slides over my right, flicking the nipple and pinching it hard between his finger and thumb. His other hand rounds my ass, caressing long, low strokes as he lifts me up by my hips until all my weight is on my upper back. He’s rolling his hips, slapping his thighs against mine. A bead of sweat rolls down his chest, and I bite down the urge to lick it off him.

“You’re so pretty. Hottest woman I’ve ever met in my life,” he mumbles, licking the pad of his thumb before pressing it against my clit.

I cry out, my back arching as I squirm from the onslaught of heat pulsing between my legs.

“I was wearing marigolds when you came in here,” I remind him, and I hear a low huff before a shit-eating grin stretches across his face.

He plunges deep, his eyes closing for a brief second as if he’s imagining silk lingerie and not rubber gloves.

“Hottest . . .”

Thrust.

“Woman . . .”

Thrust.

“I’ve . . .”

Thrust.

“Ever . . .”

Thrust.

“Met . . .”