Page 46 of Animal Tamer
He went out and got a board and cut a hole in it and sanded it because I said one reckless, wanting thing, and he took me seriously.
Nobody has ever taken my wanting seriously in my life.
“Wren.” His voice comes out rough behind me. “You don't have to. I can put it away. I shouldn't have—Cole helped, and it seemed—we don't have to?—”
“Rowe.”
“Yeah.”
I turn around. He's got his back nearly against the door, hands white-knuckled at his sides, watching me the way Brutus watches him—pretending he’s indifferent, tracking everything, braced for the answer to matter more than it's supposed to.
“Cole helped,” I repeat.
The blush comes back. “He was very professional about it.” A pause. “Okay, he was not at all professional about it.”
I giggle and look at the board again. At the hole placedat the height of his crotch. At the smooth rim I already know he sanded himself, because of course he did, because this is a man who cares.
The ache between my legs turns urgent enough to make me shift my stance.
“I want to,” I say.
His breath punches out of him.
“Now,” I add, in case there was ambiguity.
“Now,” he echoes hoarsely, and then he moves.
He hauls the board away from the wall and sets it upright in the middle of the trailer, bracing the base against the bench frame and the table leg.
Then he opens the little closet and pulls out a cushion, and he sets it down on my side of the board, positioned exactly beneath the hole, and adjusts it twice.
I kneel on it. Test the height. The hole sits level with my face, and through it I can see his belt buckle, the shake in his hands as they hover there.
“Wren.” His voice comes over the top of the board, low and frayed. “You can stop this whenever. Say anything and I stop. Knock on the wood. Anything.”
“Same to you.”
Silence for a beat. Then, softer: “Nobody's ever offered me that before.”
I press my palm flat against my own side of the board, right below the hole, because I can't press it against him.
“Get used to it,” I say.
I hear his belt come loose. The button. The zipper, loud in the small space. Denim shifting down. And then he steps forward and feeds himself through the opening—thick and flushed and already fully hard, the black filigree ink stark against his skin.
“God,” I whisper,awed.
“You can still?—”
I lean in and kiss the tip of his cock, and whatever he was going to say dies with a sound I feel through the board.
He's hot against my lips. Velvet over steel, a bead of slickness already at the tip, and I taste salt when I part my lips and take him in, slow, careful, learning the weight of him on my tongue. Above the wood, his breath goes ragged. The board creaks—his hands, I realize, gripping the top edge, holding on.
“Wren—” My name never sounded like a prayer before. “Wren.”
I keep my hands fisted on my own thighs. That was the promise. No hands. Just this—my mouth, his cock—and I pour everything into it, taking him deeper on each pass, hollowing my cheeks, letting him hear me, small humming sounds I don't fake because I don't have to. I'm so turned on I'm dizzy. My soaked pussy is aching with its own pulse.
“Touch yourself.”
