Sing for Your Supper by Jaime Samms

I’d taken an equally vicious pounding from other men. None of that excited me the way Jim’s manhandling did, though. I should have been offended at the take-first-ask-later method, but then, I’d as much as advertised what I wanted all day, and I knew it. Besides, his hands on me weren’t exactly rough. He was strong, big. He held me where he wanted me, almost protectively, under the guise of taking, but making sure I was getting something too.
    “Yeah. Guess I do.”
    “Good.”
    If I thought Jim had been forceful a moment ago, it was nothing compared to this new, ferocious pounding, his hands on my hips, digging in and leaving bruises as he guided my movements, or the animal growl he let out.
    “Oh, shit.”
    I maybe should have asked for a definition of ‘rough’. Jim’s treatment skirted the edges of real pain and I needed both hands to keep from being rammed into the wall. I grunted, trying to find the breath and words to get him to slow down when he moaned, low and long, and pulled me upright against him. He rammed up into me, buried deep. His scratchy, stubbled cheek rubbed against my neck as he curled around me.
    His body shook as strong arms snaked about my waist and held tight. The heat of the shower had nothing on the searing touch of Jim enveloping me, melting me, inside and out. For a heartbeat, we stood, me up on my toes and held down on Jim’s cock, completely at his mercy. Then Jim thrust again, a short, sharp movement, in and out, accompanied by another low, inarticulate moan.
    “Oh, God.” I echoed his moan as that thick, heavy cock ran over my prostate. Goose bumps rose and I clenched my fingers tight on his forearms. “Do that again,” I pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.
    Jim didn’t say a word as he rocked, his cock moving inside me just enough to nail the gland and make me whimper. It didn’t take long, especially once Jim’s hands started moving, caressing my stomach and teasing over my nipples. My orgasm came hard and without warning, ripping a groan from me and doubling me over.
    Jim caught us both from tumbling on our faces with a hand on the wall. He hung onto me with his other arm, waiting for me to get my wits back.
    “All right?” he asked as I finally straightened.
    “Yeah.”
    He pulled free, slipped the condom off and deftly tied it. He was silent as he turned into the water, letting it wash over his broad chest and plaster the curly dark hair down. His hands made lazy work of washing his cock in the stream, and I couldn’t take my eyes of the spectacle. Even flaccid as it now was, it was impressive.
    It took a moment to realise I was also under scrutiny.
    “Was that too rough?” Jim asked, his voice a soft rumble under the sound of the water.
    He watched me, wary, still, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to trust my answer.
    I opted for truth. “Not quite.”
    “Did I hurt ya?” Concern snuck in behind the wariness, and two lines of worry fluted his forehead just between his brows.
    I smiled. “No. It was…intense. But good.”
    Jim nodded. “Good.” The furrows went a little deeper as he watched me, almost like the big man didn’t know what to do or say next.
    I let the smile widen and turned so I could close my eyes and stick my head under the spray. “Thought you were going to feed us.”
    “Uh. Yeah, right.” The shower door opened and Jim stepped out, leaving a cushion of empty air around me. “I’ll go get somethin’ on the stove.”
    “Good. I’m starved.” Which wasn’t a lie. I wasn’t keen on the whole abrupt nature of the encounter, but there was no point making the poor man stand there not knowing what to say. Sex was sex. Good sex was good sex. I wasn’t about to complain or hold him to anything. Except making sure he had a pillow for me to sit on for supper.

Chapter Eight

    Out in the main room, dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt, I went straight to the kitchen to lean on the counter and watch him pour a can of baked