Page 8 of Mountain Man's River Rush
I leaned in and licked her, slow and thorough, tasting the river and her and pure want. She gasped, hands fisting in my wet hair. I worked her with my tongue, then slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right while my thumb found her clit.
She rocked against my mouth, breathing broken, one hand braced on the back of the couch to keep herself upright, until her thighs started shaking and she came with a sharp cry that echoed softly off the office walls.
When she was still trembling, I nodded toward the desk. “The guys keep condoms in the top right drawer. Hidden behind the extra log sheets.”
She gave me this sly little grin that made my heart do something stupid, then walked over—naked, confident, beautiful—and came back with a packet. She tore it open herself and looked at me like she wanted to do the honors.
I let her. Her hands rolling it down my cock nearly ended things right there.
I pulled her back onto me, slow and careful. She straddled my lap, her knees sinking deep into the faded cushions on either side of my hips. The head of my cock nudged against her slick entrance, and I had to grit my teeth at how hot and soft she felt.
“Easy, darlin’,” I murmured, voice low and rough. “You set the pace. I’ve got you.”
Lincoln nodded, breath shaky, and started to sink down. The first inch was pure heaven—tight, wet, velvet heat gripping me so perfectly my eyes nearly rolled back. She made a soft, surprised sound in the back of her throat, half whimper, half moan. I slid my hands up her damp back and held her steady.
“That’s it…just like that,” I whispered against her collarbone. “Feel me stretching you?”
She gasped sharply as she took another inch, her inner walls fluttering around me. “Wells…oh fuck. You’re so big.” Her voice cracked on the last word, needy and breathless.
I groaned deep in my chest as she sank lower. The wet, slick sound of her pussy taking me in filled the quiet office—obscene and perfect. When she finally settled all the way down, ass flush against my thighs, I was buried to the hilt inside her. She was scorching hot, pulsing around every inch of me, so tight it bordered on pain. I had to lock my jaw to keep from thrusting up like an animal.
“Fuck, Lincoln,” I rasped, lips brushing her nipple. “You feel incredible. So damn tight and wet for me.”
I ran my tongue over one stiff peak, then the other, sucking gently while my hand slipped between our bodies. My roughthumb found her swollen clit and stroked slow, lazy circles. She cried out, a broken little moan that went straight to my balls, and started moving—tentative rolls of her hips at first, then deeper, braver strokes.
The couch creaked softly beneath us. Every time she rose up, I heard the wet suck of her pussy dragging along my cock. Every time she sank back down, our skin met with a soft, fleshy slap. Her breathing turned into desperate little pants and whimpers.
I kept talking to her, low and steady, the way I’d talk her through a tough rapid.
“Look at you, ridin’ me so good… That’s my girl. Take what you need. Nice and deep.”
She moaned louder, head falling back, damp hair sticking to her shoulders. Her breasts bounced with every roll of her hips, nipples shiny from my mouth. The sight of my thick cock disappearing into her pretty pink pussy over and over—shiny with her arousal—was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
“Wells—” she gasped, grinding down harder, her voice turning ragged. “It feels…so full. I can feel all of you.”
I groaned and thrust up to meet her, just enough to give her that extra pressure. The wet slap of our bodies grew louder, faster. Her moans turned into sharp, needy cries.
“You’re squeezin’ me so tight, darlin’. You close again?”
She nodded frantically, nails digging into my shoulders. “Yes—don’t stop—please?—”
I gripped her hips harder, guiding her rhythm, thumb still stroking her clit in firm circles. “Come on, Lincoln. Let me feel this pretty pussy come all over my cock.”
She shattered with a loud, broken cry, her whole body seizing up as she clenched around me in pulsing waves. The feeling of her coming—hot, rhythmic, fluttering so hard it milked my shaft—was too much. I thrust up deep and held her there as my own orgasm slammed into me.
“Fuck—Lincoln—” I growled against her neck as I came hard, hips jerking, filling the condom in long, powerful pulses while her pussy kept squeezing me through every wave.
We stayed like that for a while. Her forehead against mine, her breath slowing, her fingers loosening on my shoulders one by one. The river moved outside, steady and unhurried. The same sound it had been making since long before either of us was born.
I ran my hand up her spine. Slow. Feeling every notch, every warm inch of skin that was still damp from the river and flushed from everything else. She shivered. I pulled her closer, and she let me.
That was the part that undid me. She let me.
This woman who had taught herself to paddle from online videos because nobody would let her near the water. Who had run the Gauley with nothing but internet tutorials and her own nerve. Who walked into my lot at closing time and demanded the hardest run on the menu like the river owed her something.
She didn’t need anyone. She had made not needing anyone into a way of life, and it had worked for her, and she was good at it.
And she was sitting in my lap on a wrecked couch in a back office that smelled like river water and rubber, letting me hold her.
