exploded through her body like an earthquake, the crux of her thighs the epicenter.
She heard her cries—couldn’t begin to suppress them; she clutched the rail as tight as she could, feeling the rolling waves of pleasure echo through her from head to toe, a release so powerful she could barely withstand it. The world shifted; everything inside her spun and tilted crazily.
When it was over, every part of her body tingled, all the way out to the tips of her fingers and toes—and somehow she and Brent were on their knees now, both of them. She’d sunk there, unable to keep standing, and he’d descended with her—still inside her.
His arms circled her waist as she collapsed against him, trying to come back to herself, and he was whispering in her ear, “Aw, baby , that was so good. You did so fucking good, honey.”
And somehow, it helped. A moment when she might have suffered in anguish over what she’d just done, was still doing, instead became one where she felt . . . comforted, cared for, praised. So she rested against him, trying to regain her strength—but she stayed aware, too, that he remained inside her. And when that grew to be the sensation she felt more than her recovery from orgasm, she found herself biting her lip in raw pleasure.
“We’re gonna shift now,” Brent said, his breath warming her neck, “and you’re gonna move to your hands and knees.”
Oh. My. She’d never . . . But then, she’d never done it standing up before, either. And . . . and . . . she’d given him the power, told him she didn’t want to make any decisions. So . . . she moved with him, slowly, leaning forward until her palms pressed into the wooden plank floor of the gazebo, and she arched her bottom just like before and felt a little obscene, but when he began to thrust into her again with those slow, deep, thorough strokes, it took everything else away.
The position was hard to maintain in her exhaustion, but each drive traveled all the way through her, out through her limbs. And when he began to move harder, faster, grunting his pleasure with each plunge, even her face began to tingle hotly and she once again couldn’t hold in her cries of pure lusty joy. Oh God, he felt so good, so big, thrusting, thrusting, so deep, so hard. She sobbed. She moaned. She felt utterly taken, possessed, just like she’d wanted—although she still didn’t understand why on earth that was a good thing.
And just when she feared her arms would give out and she’d collapse to the wood beneath her, he muttered, “Fuck yeah, baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come so fucking hard in your sweet pussy. Here I go.” And then his low, masculine groans filled the night—and seemed to fill her soul , too. To know she’d made this insanely sexy, powerful man climax so fiercely. The sex expert. The sexologist. It was a unique delight that had her smiling secretly in the darkness, for just a brief moment, before their bodies slowly crumpled to the gazebo’s floor.
They lay silent for a few minutes, during which Jenna tried not to feel anything inside. Just the physical part. Because—for whatever reason—she had needed sex tonight. So she tried to enjoy the afterglow. And she tried really hard to forget the weirdness of where she was and whom she’d just had really amazing sex with.
Until Brent—lying on his back next to her, peering up toward the gazebo’s rafters—said, “Sorry, sunshine, but looks like I win.”
She sucked in her breath and turned her head toward him. “Win what?”
Next to her, he sat up, then reached for her hands to draw her upright, too. “I proved my point,” he said, back to being the smooth, matter-of-fact “sex doctor.” “You agreed that if I did, you’d let me take you the rest of the way, through the fantasies you need.”
Ugh, there was that icky word “need” again. “This proved nothing except that apparently I can have sex with a stranger.”
He grinned, lowering his chin
She heard her cries—couldn’t begin to suppress them; she clutched the rail as tight as she could, feeling the rolling waves of pleasure echo through her from head to toe, a release so powerful she could barely withstand it. The world shifted; everything inside her spun and tilted crazily.
When it was over, every part of her body tingled, all the way out to the tips of her fingers and toes—and somehow she and Brent were on their knees now, both of them. She’d sunk there, unable to keep standing, and he’d descended with her—still inside her.
His arms circled her waist as she collapsed against him, trying to come back to herself, and he was whispering in her ear, “Aw, baby , that was so good. You did so fucking good, honey.”
And somehow, it helped. A moment when she might have suffered in anguish over what she’d just done, was still doing, instead became one where she felt . . . comforted, cared for, praised. So she rested against him, trying to regain her strength—but she stayed aware, too, that he remained inside her. And when that grew to be the sensation she felt more than her recovery from orgasm, she found herself biting her lip in raw pleasure.
“We’re gonna shift now,” Brent said, his breath warming her neck, “and you’re gonna move to your hands and knees.”
Oh. My. She’d never . . . But then, she’d never done it standing up before, either. And . . . and . . . she’d given him the power, told him she didn’t want to make any decisions. So . . . she moved with him, slowly, leaning forward until her palms pressed into the wooden plank floor of the gazebo, and she arched her bottom just like before and felt a little obscene, but when he began to thrust into her again with those slow, deep, thorough strokes, it took everything else away.
The position was hard to maintain in her exhaustion, but each drive traveled all the way through her, out through her limbs. And when he began to move harder, faster, grunting his pleasure with each plunge, even her face began to tingle hotly and she once again couldn’t hold in her cries of pure lusty joy. Oh God, he felt so good, so big, thrusting, thrusting, so deep, so hard. She sobbed. She moaned. She felt utterly taken, possessed, just like she’d wanted—although she still didn’t understand why on earth that was a good thing.
And just when she feared her arms would give out and she’d collapse to the wood beneath her, he muttered, “Fuck yeah, baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come so fucking hard in your sweet pussy. Here I go.” And then his low, masculine groans filled the night—and seemed to fill her soul , too. To know she’d made this insanely sexy, powerful man climax so fiercely. The sex expert. The sexologist. It was a unique delight that had her smiling secretly in the darkness, for just a brief moment, before their bodies slowly crumpled to the gazebo’s floor.
They lay silent for a few minutes, during which Jenna tried not to feel anything inside. Just the physical part. Because—for whatever reason—she had needed sex tonight. So she tried to enjoy the afterglow. And she tried really hard to forget the weirdness of where she was and whom she’d just had really amazing sex with.
Until Brent—lying on his back next to her, peering up toward the gazebo’s rafters—said, “Sorry, sunshine, but looks like I win.”
She sucked in her breath and turned her head toward him. “Win what?”
Next to her, he sat up, then reached for her hands to draw her upright, too. “I proved my point,” he said, back to being the smooth, matter-of-fact “sex doctor.” “You agreed that if I did, you’d let me take you the rest of the way, through the fantasies you need.”
Ugh, there was that icky word “need” again. “This proved nothing except that apparently I can have sex with a stranger.”
He grinned, lowering his chin
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