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Hobo’s expression is indecipherable when he finally turns around. I want to feel sexy. Except I’m sweaty. I also start worrying about the lighting. Since I was a teenage girl, I’ve heard how my chest was rather unimpressive while I had a decent butt. Those words return as Hobo watches me. Without thinking, I use my arms to cover my breasts.
Crawling into the tent, Hobo rests on his knees and studies me. His gaze lingers on my face before evaluating the rest of my body. Like a scared turtle, I want to retreat into my shell. Hiding in my head feels safer than remaining under a microscope.
Instead of giving in to my fear, I admire Hobo’s handsome face. He might be unreadable, but his presence remains intoxicating.
His hand reaches out, leisurely tugging my arms free. I obey, leaving me laid bare.
Feeling small under his gaze, I look down. Rather than his hard expression, I focus on his muscular, scarred body begging to be loved. I know the basics of his childhood and his place in the motorcycle club. I understand the reasons his scars happened. However, until right now, I’ve never felt the pain and fear he must have endured.
I force my gaze to meet his. I’m scared I won’t be good in bed. I’m terrified he’ll be too rough. I’m certain this will be our end.
I still smile at the man I love. Whatever happens is better than any of my dreams.
Hobo seems to be waiting for something. Maybe my smile offers him the green light to take control again. Or perhaps he just couldn’t wait any longer. Either way, he pins me to the mattress and kisses me.
I’m immediately intoxicated. My hands explore his back, taking extra care over the puckered scars hidden in the artwork covering his skin.
Hobo groans into my mouth. I feel his cock poking at me through his boxers. I reach down to tug them off. In my head, it’s such a simple move. Except his buff body keeps me pinned, preventing me from stretching enough to tug off his boxers.
Peeling his lips from mine, Hobo studies my face. He must like what he sees because he lowers himself and rests his face between my unimpressive breasts. I have no time to become self-conscious. His lips and hands claim my flesh, making me moan and squirm.
Just like that, my lust hits a new level. I’m calling his name, sinking my fingers into his thick blond hair, reaching for his boxers, wanting more. Hobo sucks at my nipples, making my skin flush. His fingers find my mound, sinking between the folds, stroking my clit. I hump his hand like a dog in heat.
I can’t think. No words make sense. I can only call out his name as he fingers me with wild abandon. My nails dig into his shoulders, wanting him closer. Even as he brings me to an orgasm, Hobo feels too far away. I don’t want to be serviced. I’m not looking to get off. I want to be claimed.
The sound of ripping fabric nearly breaks the spell. My brain trips over itself trying to stir up trouble. I ignore its questions and meet Hobo’s fevered kisses with my own.
His thickly muscled body climbs over me. My thighs widen, allowing him room. Freed from the boxers, his cock pokes at my flesh, leaving wetness behind.
I moan approvingly when I feel the head press between my folds. Hobo kisses me harder, devouring my ability to complain. I sense he fears I’ll flip out again.
Wrapping my arms around him, I dig my heels into the soft mattress to allow me to lift my hips. His cock fills me a few inches at first. Then, fully when his hips thrust forward.
My pussy is so hot and wet that it quickly adjusts to his size. As Hobo’s lips pop free, he frowns at me as if I might complain.
“I love you,” I say and brush hair from his face.
His icy blue eyes narrow for the slightest second, revealing his distrust. I stroke his throat, shoulders, and back. All while holding his gaze. He breaks free of his doubts and kisses me again.
Hobo’s powerful hips move fast, thrusting his cock deeply inside me. I can’t believe how incredible I feel. My body hums from the heat of his power claiming me. I’m suddenly an extension of this commanding man.
I transform inside, breaking in some ways and mending in others. I feel reborn as we orgasm together, out of breath, as if racing from the past.
His lips find mine before peeling away and sucking at my throat. His cock suddenly leaves me. I reach for him. We’re a tangle of limbs as we kiss and nip at each other, fighting for control.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I should just rest on my back and let this wild man run the show.
Instead, I wrestle with Hobo, fighting to get him on his back, wanting to explore, and needing more than to take pleasure. I demand to give him everything.
Hobo chuckles when I finally get him on his back and try to pin him there. Even amused, he reveals the urge to fight back and regain the upper hand.
“You love me,” I say, cheating to throw him off his game.
Hobo hesitates, unsure about being so honest about his feelings. I take that moment to lick his right nipple. His body goes still as if on alert, yet he doesn’t fight me.
My lips and fingers do to him what he did to me. I admire the cut of his muscles. I explore the tapestry of ink flowing across his chest, over his arms, down his stomach, across his back. Kissing, licking, and nibbling at his flesh, I take extra care when I find scars. Some are older, stretched taut as he grew from a boy to a man. Others are more recent. Are these from knives or bullets? How close did Hobo come to death? Not just once but many times.
As my nails skim his inner thighs’ tender flesh, I slide my tongue along the head of his cock. I’ve never once given a good blowjob. I don’t know if today will break that streak. However, I’m sure I’ll enjoy tasting Hobo in a way I never have any other man.
