Page 34 of WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)
Our tongues dance and agree to this.
No more games. Waylon kisses me, his eyes blazing into mine. His hand moves between our bodies, guiding the broad head of his cock to my entrance. Then he drives into me with a heavy shove of his hips, filling me in an instant.
My heels bang against the back of his thighs, and I dig my nails into his sides, not knowing how to take this invasion. I gasp out at the feel of him embedded so deep inside me.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” His tone is gentle but commanding. “This is where we’re supposed to be. Relax for Teacher. Just relax.”
My mind calms at his instruction, his assurance, and my muscles loosen automatically like they’ve received a signal straight from my brain, not his mouth.
“Good, angel. Good.” He smooths a hand over the top of my hair. Gives me a proud smile. Then he sets a pace, thrusting into me.
It’s different this time. He’s the one riding me. He’s the one whose hips roll, seeking…seeking….
Sparks of pleasure dance across my skin as he digs for what he wants.
You belong to me.
I try not to think about what he said before and focus on what’s building inside of me—what’s finally happening.
I’m determined to enjoy this. Because isn’t this what I wanted? What he promised to teach me? How to fuck good.
But it doesn’t feel like fucking. My core pulses around him, hugging his cock, desperate and needy. And I cling to him as a new kind of lust washes over me.
I want him. I want this. My whole body thrums with an aching need.
I make a sound. Half-sob, half-plea, not knowing exactly what I’m asking for.
But he gives it to me. He pushes down on the inside of one of my knees, opening me wider as he thrust in even harder.
He’s in so deep….
Claiming. He’s claiming you, Amira.
Those thoughts—those wrong, wrong thoughts drop into my head before I can think to stop them, into my stupid, screwed-up foster kid lizard brain.
And then suddenly I’m coming. “Waylon. Oh God, Waylon.”
No more games. But I call his name as the climax builds. I call his name just like he told me to—clinging to him like the desperate girl I pretended not to be with other guys.
And then I sob as the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had washes over me. “Waylon.”
I’m crying. I’m crying, and I can’t stop.
It would be better if he acted like all those other guys. If he freaked out and stopped everything when he saw what a mess I really am.
But Waylon doesn’t freak out.
No, he hugs me closer, his arms two steel bands around me. Then he shouts out his release, his dick kicking inside of me.
His orgasm doesn’t spark another one for me like it often does in those shifter books. But it affects me all the same.
A heady feeling comes over me as he convulses in my arms. Not happiness. Not pride. Not satisfaction. A strange blend of all three emotions fills me with warm light.
So, this was why people were so obsessed with sex. I understood now. If this was how it felt to be with a man, I fully comprehend why Sierra and the other nurses treat finding a guy to go home with like a big game hunt when we go out to the Philly clubs.
He collapses on top of me, heavy and sweaty. I don’t care about the heavy part, but his wet skin turns on my nursing brain.
“Is your wound okay? That was a lot of exertion. I should—”
“One more word about this damn hole in my side, and you’re getting some kind of punishment.” He lifts off me with a grunt and walks over to the kitchen trash can to dispose of the condom. “Only reason I let you fuss over me as long as I did was because that was the only way to get you to touch me.”
I think about it, then decide against arguing with him.
And just a few seconds later, he returns to the bed and yanks the covers over both of us before pulling me into his arms. Like I’m his favorite stuffed animal.
I snicker at the thought of Waylon having a stuffy, even as his command from last night echoes in my head.
No more sleeping on the couch.
Okay, teacher.
Every part of me is either throbbing or tingling with sensation after all of those back-to-back orgasms. I don’t think I have enough nerve function left to form a thought, much less extract myself from his arms.
Also….
I breathe in and sigh a silent confession: I don’t want to. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to be ethical. Or perfect. I just want to lie there in Waylon’s arms.
Not wanting to improve myself or be better for the first time since I landed in the foster care system disturbs me most of all. Makes me bunch the cover the biker pulled over us in my fist and ask, “Waylon?”
