Page 5 of Dangle

The hand gripping my hip disappeared for half a blink.

Red-hot pain exploded when it reappeared.

The hot, heavy weight of his cock replaced his fingers with a deep, soul-splitting thrust while I still gasped through the pain of his hand landing on my ass.

His nuts nestled against mine when he stopped, fully buried. “Color?”

“Green.” My answer, a needy sigh that escaped with my next breath.

His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back into him, then pressing me to the top of the couch back. Slow, measured, calm movement dragged his cock from my hole.

“FUCK!”

He slammed into me, over and over, robbing me of breath, thought, and sight. My world narrowed to the touch points between our bodies.

The tight grip of his hands.

The tickle of his hairy thighs rubbing against mine.

The ass-splitting movement of his dick inside me.

The throb of my cock pressed between my body and the couch.

The pinpricks of pain when he pulled my hair.

The molten lava of an ass smack. First one side, then the other.

The press of his palms against my hips, angling?—

“Fuck, Ewen. There. Right there!”

One thrust became two, then three, and four until…

“Yes!” I gasped, and he answered with a growl, “Fuck.”

Come shot from my dick and his.

Thirty minutes later,we were showered, dressed, with food and beer in front of us where we sat, side-by-side, on the now clean leather sofa. Only our breaths disrupted the eerily quiet room, the sounds of us eating and drinking, and…the one-way glass wall in our office. That wall overlooked the club, giving us a bird’s-eye view of the dance club below like a television on mute—all movement and flashing lights.

Ewen side-eyed me. It made me twitchy. I took a swig of my beer, wiped my mouth, picked up my fork, and wrapped my lipsaround a bite from the styrofoam takeout container, once filled to overflowing with the best barbecued brisket and sides the city offered. That had nothing on the shit we got whenever we ventured south to Priest and Cam’s in Nashville or further south to the Holt Ranch in Texas.

I did it all to keep from meeting his eyes or answering his questions.

A hand planted itself between my still smarting ass cheek and the back of the couch. Another hand shoved the container next to mine to the opposite side of the coffee table. Ewen pushed to his feet, rounded the table, and sat down opposite me.

“I’m over you acting like I’m not in the room.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I held it and dropped my chin. The exhale blow-fished my cheeks as the air escaped, loud and slow. The sharp points of my elbows pressed into my thighs, and my head dropped into my hands, which carded through my still damp hair.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me what the fuck is wrong. And don’t say nothing. I’m worried.”

“I’m in a rut.”

“Okay,” he said in that slow way that made it clear he knew that already.

“I’m over this shit.”