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But he hasn’t ventured inside. Cloaked by the night, he stands under the hardy leaves of a tall, green ash, head down, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
It’s unusual to see him so still when he’s troubled. No pacing. No movement. This doesn’t look like the fixer, the fighter I know him to be. This looks like defeat. Unable to continue watching whatever’s nagging at him, I pull open the door.
Mick’s head comes up. I can feel his stare for several moments before he steps out of the dark and into the light from the porch. He removes his hands from his pockets and walks toward me. The confident swagger I’ve come to expect is diminished by the slouch of his shoulders and the hesitant pace of his gait. He climbs the three stairs, one slow step at a time, until he’s right there. Face-to-face. His brim is pulled down low; his full mouth set in a tight, grim line. What looks like conflict and apology adds to the burden in his eyes.
I don’t speak. I don’t ask him what’s wrong. I just reach up for him and tug his mouth down to mine.
“Dee,” he rasps as our lips crash with turbulent force.
My mouth opens, his tongue thrusts inside, tasting me in lush, aggressive strokes. His hands grab my hips, slamming me against his body; his heart pounds, a raging drum beat against my chest.
Yes! I could weep. Not just fire, but an inferno. He eats up my moans. His foot kicks the door closed and I feel him moving us into the house. Pressed up against him, I jockey off his hat and then my hands are in his hair, holding him close. He growls, kissing me back, roughly. The feral desperation in him is as much a red flag as it is a turn on.
“Love me,” I plead, my sex throbbing, my heart aching.
“I do love you.” He drags his mouth from my lips to my neck, nipping and sucking hard. “I more than love you. That word isn’t powerful enough…no word could ever be.”
“Then show me.”
“I won’t be gentle.”
A warning or a promise? I don’t care. “Do it, Mick. I want it.” I need it.
In swift, impatient moves, he yanks open my robe, divests me of it, and shoves off his jacket, sailing it across the floor. My breath snags as he spins me around. My fingers clutch the hallway table.
Mick isn’t always tender, but this is more intense, more urgent. A rapid succession of moans escapes my throat as his hands reach between us. The erotic sound of his zipper renders the air, the immediate brush of his cock against the bare cheek of my ass tells me he hasn’t bothered to pull down his jeans, another sign of impatience that I find thrilling.
He bends me over. There’s little time to brace for the impact when he takes hold of my hips and plunges into my drenched sex. His decadent groan cascades over my senses. His shaft fills me to the root with sleek, brutal drives that shake my body.
“Sooo good,” I pant from the searing heat that burns my skin, my core, that blisters me all over.
Mick removes one hand from my hip and slides his forefinger and middle finger into my open mouth. I suck them in deep, milking them the way I would his cock.
It feels naughty and sexy. My climax mounts, my moans spilling out when his fingers leave my mouth. Then I feel his hand at the top of my bottom, feel his wet fingers glide between the seam, feel the incessant pressure coaxing me to flower open for him.
A novice to anal play, I would never have explored that curiosity with any other man. But with Mick, there are no limits. No reservations. With him, I’ve been downright uninhibited. Even raw.
Not as tentative as he was the first time, he pumps ecstasy into me. My fists grip the table, consumed by the dual stimulation, by the slick sounds of saturation, by him finger-fucking my ass while taking me doggy-style in the middle of the foyer.
All self-consciousness abandoned, my hips rock back and forth, racing toward orgasm. And Mick, knowing just what I like, what I need, slides his other hand to my sex; the pads of his fingers parting me to rub his thumb over my clit, exerting an exquisite pressure. The effect is devastating.
I climax. A volcano, liquid hot, spreads through me. My moans are guttural, throaty wails. My limbs tremor as I clamp down, writhing in the throes of one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had.
“Fuck, Dee.” Mick grabs my hips with both hands, his fingers imprinting my flesh, and pounds into me.
My body, wet and greedy for each stroke, offers no resistance to his ruthless appetite. I quicken to his rhythm, loving the feel of him riding me hard, reveling in my own power of being masterfully serviced. It’s primal—base—an untamed animalistic mating that rips a sob from my throat and makes me come again; a series of quick, pulsing contractions that tighten my core and make me quake from head to toe.
Mick tenses. Then erupts. A soul-wrenching growl trembles the air as he pumps against my behind, flooding me with his hot, thick semen.
I can feel it dripping down my thighs when he finally pulls out and pivots me into his arms, clinging to me, catching his breath in my hair.
We stay that way through the aftershocks. My mouth against his damp throat, soothing him with kisses, my arms wrapped around him, hoarding the closeness—afraid that the moment will end all too soon.
And it does.
Mick eases back. The way he looks at me pinches my chest. The fire is gone. The only fight I see in his tormented eyes is the one he’s having with himself.
“Baby…I’m…”
