Page 90 of One Last Rodeo

Perfect. A word that I used to strive to be in everything I did. Right now, it doesn't feel like a good thing. It feels like something that's being held against me. Because I’m not perfect. I have unhealed wounds from my past relationship that are spilling into the present. I struggle with insecurities that have followed me around my entire life. I’m at times defensive, and quick to shut down rather than talking things through.

I know he’s struggling back there. I can feel it in the way his thrusts are stuttering, in the way he’s holding himself just shy of losing control. Torn between wanting me and knowing this feels like an ending. Torn between believing I’ll forgive him after this, and terrified that I won’t.

One hand slides around my waist, finding my clit with practiced ease, rubbing me exactly the way he knows will unravel me fast. It always works too fast and that’s the problem right now.With Davis, fingers alone never did much. Oral was rarely given, conditional, something that I earned from him on special occasions, holidays, or if he ended up drinking too much.

But Jensen...Jensen touches me twice, and my body lights up like it’s been waiting its whole life for him. He proudly enjoys giving just as much as receiving. And I can’t let that happen tonight.

I don’t want sweet.

I don’t want careful.

I don’t want him looking at me like this means something.

I shove his hand away from my clit, hard.

“Catalina,” he growls, pausing mid-thrust.

I rock back into him without hesitation, taking his cock all the way inside me, forcing a sharp curse from his throat as I impale myself on him.

“Don’t stop,” I say, breathless. “If you’re going to fuck me, finish it without your fingers.”

He groans and tries to reach around my waist again for my clit. I shove my hips forward, pressing them hard into the cold marble sink so that there’s no room for his hand to go where he wants it. The bite of the rock is going to hurt, but I don't care. Jensen will come tonight but I refuse to.

“Let me fucking touch you,” he grits out. “Let me help you come.”

“No.” I arch my back more, just enough to make it worse for him. “Fuck me like this, or don’t fuck me at all.”

He shifts, trying to turn me, trying to get my face to look at him outside of the mirror, trying to ground this in something softer,something gentle. I shake my head, gripping the edge of the sink, dropping my chin to my chest until my knuckles burn.

“Get it over with, Jensen.”

“Let’s talk about this.”

I fold my arms on the counter and drop my forehead onto them, the sting behind my eyes is sharp and sudden. I shouldn’t have done this. I’m not in the right head space right now. I think about Davis. About how little we actually fought since we rarely spent time together outside of the hospital. About how every disagreement died before it ever had a chance to matter—because he never cared enough to fight for me. I think that was it. Back then, I didn't see it that way. I thought not fighting was a good thing.

Does Jensen care enough to argue with me? It seems like he does. It seems like he doesn't want to drop this. It doesn’t matter. This needs to end. I’m not good for him. I’m not perfect.

He exhales when I don’t reply, and it's a defeated sigh, before he slides back into me slowly. The new pace he sets is reverent, a careful rocking like he’s waiting for me to soften and start talking, for me to break and saynever mind!

I don’t. Instead, I shove my hips backward, forcing him deeper, making him stumble and grab onto me to keep from losing his footing.

He growls, low and frustrated, trying to regain control, trying to slow me down and set the pace like he still thinks he can steer where this is going. Maybe I'd given up some control to Jensen during our short time together, but my heart was always still guarded.

It’ll always be this way until I deal with the hurt that Davis left behind. And that’s the cold truth.

I shove back again.

“Harder,” I say.

His breathing turns ragged. He curses under his breath, fingers digging into my hips. The red polish I painted onto his nails flashes against my brown skin. It's bright and violent. Like blood and the marks that he'll leave on my skin.

“Hurry up. It’s too slow,” I demand.

He thrusts faster, but it’s still not enough. He’s doing this on purpose. He’s savoring.

“Harder, dammit!”

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Kitty—”