Page 39 of Mountain Man

Having my prostate stroked with his fingers was nice and all, but getting pounded by his thick cock was a whole different ball game.

I splayed my legs wider and smacked his ass. “More. Harder. Ungh!”

He complied, drilling my hole with piston-quick thrusts followed by a deep grinding motion that was so good it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I stroked my dick, nervous that I was too close too soon. Waylon knew it. He pulled out and flopped beside me on the mattress.

“C’mon. Your turn. Ride me.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. I straddled his torso and lowered myself onto his pole. In no time at all, I was at full gallop. The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of two grown men going at each other with total and complete abandon. Sweat dripped from my brow as I raced for the finish line, and when I came, it was unlike anything I’d felt in a long time.

White light and fireworks exploded, and tweeting birds circled my head. Cum jetted across Waylon’s abs, and maybe that was the thing that tipped him over the edge. Or maybe it was the vise grip I had on his cock. He grabbed my neck and pulled me toward him, then rolled us sideways, bucking his hips as he roared through his orgasm.

I wrapped my arms and legs around him, fusing our mouths and absorbing the aftershocks.

I couldn’t speak for Waylon, but I was wrecked. I’d have loved nothing more than to stay right here and block out the rest of the world…just for a little while.

CHAPTER 14

REG

Ifired up the grill, waving aside Waylon’s offer to help make a salad.

“You’re my guest. I’ll do the heavy lifting.”

“Chopping lettuce isn’t rocket science. I got this,” he insisted, petting Tate who’d seemingly forgiven us for locking him out of the bedroom for an hour.

“There’s not much chopping involved. I bought a premixed salad in a bag.”

“Even better.” He tilted his head meaningfully. “You have a nice place. Did you remodel your kitchen?”

“I remodeled everything.”

“Like what?”

While I shucked corn, I launched into a mini report on the joys of buying an older home.

My house was a two-story cottage built in the late 1970s on a street that was one of the last “new developments” in the area. At the time, cathedral ceilings, wall-to-wall carpeting, tile countertops, and melamine kitchen cabinets had been all the rage. Buying a fixer-upper in a good neighborhood had been a dream come true to Jess and me as newlyweds. We’d had big plans to make it our own and trade up after we had a kid or two.

“I tore out the old carpet, installed hardwood flooring, updated the kitchen, bathrooms, and replaced track lighting and brass chandeliers for more contemporary fixtures. Nothing is super high-end, but my ex has a good eye for interior design.”

“So…she decorates for you?”

I scoffed. “No, I just haven’t changed anything since she left. That was…nine years ago. She told me just the other day that the house needs a refresh. She even offered to help me find a new rug for the family room after Tate marked his territory a few times in the same spot. I probably need one, but I’ll buy it myself. Eventually.”

This house was home in every sense of the word. The walls were adorned with family photos, books that had been collected over a few decades were stuffed to the gills on the built-in shelves, and dog toys were liberally scattered around the basket near the stone hearth in the family room.

Sure, the sofa cushions were frayed and the stripes on the throw pillows had faded. The coffee table had numerous scratches and dings too, and there was a perfect indentation of a portion of the alphabet courtesy of the time Gretchen had done her homework with a sharp pencil and heavy hand. But that lived-in feel and those marks reminded me that I wasn’t alone on nights when I was usually very much on my own.

But tonight, Waylon was here, sliding an appreciative sideways glance my way as he emptied the contents of packaged salad makings into the bowl I’d set on the counter. “It looks pretty sweet to me.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“I can’t help it. My dick was in your ass, and I’m on cloud fucking nine. Christ, even the way you shuck corn is a turn-on. I’ve always had a thing for a man who’s good with his hands.”

My pulse skittered as Waylon took his time sizing me up like a side of beef. Me. I figured it was best to fight fire with fire and act as though sharing a meal with a man post-sex in my home was very normal, very routine.

Thankfully, I could bullshit with the best of them.

“I’m very good with my hands,” I hummed lasciviously.