Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
She bucks her hips like a goddamn wildcat, moaning in her throat, not a single complaint even though I’m banging her harder than I have any right to, this only being her second time. I can’t imagine it ever being another way for us, though, and she seems to agree. Seems to love my rough reentries to her body, even opening her thighs wider to receive them harder.
“Yes, Uncle Mase. Yes. Faster.”
Growling into her neck, I angle her against the building and jackhammer her tight, slick cunt, clenching my teeth against the need to come too fast. “God help me,” I grit out, raking her neck with my teeth. “Our babies are going to have my last name. And so are you. You’ll be my wife before my come finishes drying on your thighs.”
She whimpers, “Yes. Yes.” Her pussy spasms, her thighs jerking tight, and I bounce her through the climax, groaning over the way her titties shake for my entertainment.
And with her pleasure seen to, I take my own, grinding her down hard on my lap, tight enough to put an unholy pressure on my aching balls—and I let her clenching pussy milk the seed right out of me, the entire sweet piece of her rippling around me, root to tip. Rippling. “That’s where you really get your name, isn’t it baby? Couldn’t keep it a secret from me forever, could you?” I pant, kneading her butt, my knees dipping under the rush of the best orgasm of my thirty-eight years, because she’s finally mine. All mine. “Oh Christ. Yeah, sweetheart, just like that. Let me feel why I’m such a lucky motherfucker. Ahhhh. God.”
It’s a long time until she stops trembling and sighs into my sweaty neck. “I love you.”
I kiss her with every ounce of love in my soul, love that will multiply and grow more intense every minute for the rest of my life. “I love you, too, baby.”
Epilogue
Ripley
One week later
I press my nose to the back of Mase’s leather jacket as we hum down the highway, inhaling the scent I now associate with safety, love, excitement and orgasms.
So many orgasms.
Except for the classes I started attending on Monday, I’ve barely been off my back.
Or my hands and knees.
Hours have been spent naked, sweaty, breathless, writhing, his mouth on mine, his hands everywhere, his words of praise and devotion ringing in my ears. I’m a sated, tensionless, love-struck blob, basically, hanging on to my rock as the bike purrs beneath us. This is my preferred mode of transportation now and I have no idea how I got around before. My purple Volkswagen Bug still probably sits unused in our driveway forever, because if I can have my arms wrapped around Mase, I will. Always.
We ease to a stop outside of my parents’ house and I take a deep, bracing breath. Mase takes off our helmets, hanging them from the handlebars, then he lifts me from the bike, sliding me slowly down every sensuous ridge of his body.
“Nervous?” he asks, molding my hips in his strong hands.
“A little.” His hands slip around to my backside, palming my cheeks roughly, and I sway into him, going up on my toes to fit my curves to his muscle. “Are you turning me on to distract me from my nerves, husband?”
Heat flares in his eyes at the title. “Call me that again and we won’t make it inside.”
When Mase told me he was going to be intense and jealous, I understood.
It’s part of him and I love all of him.
I didn’t expect his controlling nature to excite me so much.
During a morning class this week, I received a text message from him asking if my legs were crossed like a good girl. And if they weren’t, why the fuck not? The only time you allow space between your legs is when I’m between them.
I practically climbed Mase when I walked out to find him straddling his Harley, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, stalking my approach. Now, I eye the bike seat longingly, remembering how he made love to me on it afterward behind the campus library, my ankles thrown over his shoulders, his eyes burning with lust.
“Ripley…” he says warningly, sliding a hand into the back of my panties and giving it a swat. “You’re making me hard.”
I moan into his neck. “You’re always hard.”
Muttering a frustrated curse, Mase snags my wrist and drags me toward the house. “Let’s get this over with so I can get you alone.”
With my desire momentarily thwarted, I eye the front door with a fresh case of trepidation. “Do you think they’ll handle it well?”
“At this point, sweetheart, it’s just a formality.” We stop at the door, Mase gazing down at me with ownership as he knocks. “You’re mine.”
I nuzzle my face in the arm of his jacket. “I’m yours.”