The way Randy’s body is positioned makes it more, rather than less, difficult to see what’s happening. It’s better than no view at all, I suppose. What I really want to do is reach over and hit a bedside lamp, even if it means people will know we’re in here. Instead I go for the one other thing I want almost as much as a good visual: Randy’s cock. It’s awkward getting to his boxers, but I’m determined to put my hand on him while he’s got his fingers in me. Then maybe I’ll give blowing him a try.
As soon as I touch the waistband, Randy grips my wrist—gently but firmly—and shakes his head. “I don’t need the distraction.”
“Maybe I do.” I try again with my other hand, but he swats it away, too.
“You’ll get some of that soon enough.” He has this dark, intense look on his face.
Then he curls his fingers and hits that spot I have to work so hard to reach on my own. I give up trying to get to his trouser anaconda and let him give me yet another nerve-shattering orgasm. When I’m done coming, I discover I’ve been magically repositioned on the bed so my head is on a pillow. Randy runs his hand over the comforter until something crinkles.
He holds up one of the gold foil wrappers. “You still interested in this?”
“Pretty sure that’s what I came up here for.”
“Are you always this snarky?”
“Mostly.” I don’t mention that part of it is nerves and being outside of my comfort zone. None of the guys I’ve been with in the past are anything like Randy. Not as hot, not as well endowed, not as skilled, not as smooth.
“I like it.” He pulls the covers over us, cocooning us in cotton, or whatever these extra-soft sheets are made of. “Mostly.”
I hear rather than see him tear the wrapper. He must be a master condom roller because he’s suddenly between my legs. I don’t know how he lost his boxers, but there’s just hot skin against hot skin. And latex, of course. Randy runs the head of his cock along my slit a few times.
“I’m goin’ in,” he whispers.
I laugh, then exhale sharply as the head probes low and he shifts forward—just the tip, though.
“Okay. I’m in.”
I snort.
He pushes in a little farther. “That’s all I’ve got.”
I bite his shoulder, or some part of him. I can’t see to know since we’re still covered in blankets. “Seriously, Ballistic? What’d you do, put your balls inside the condom, too?”
He makes a noise like he’s holding back a laugh. “You’re not last-naming me while I’m fucking you, are you? That’s a no-go, right there.” He pushes up on his arms.
“I think you’re forgetting I’ve had my hand on that cock. I know there’s more to it than a button in a bush.” I wrap my arms around his neck and hook my ankles at his waist. Essentially he’s doing a pushup with me attached to his body now. I tilt my hips and, despite being suspended in air, I manage to get him to go a little deeper.
“I don’t have a bush.”
I’m almost positive he’s gritting his teeth. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“Is it, now?”
I have eighteen years of figure skating under my belt. I’m strong, fit, and limber. I can do things with my body most people can’t—including remaining suspended in air for a significant period of time. I’m also heavier than I look. I might be what girls call “skinny,” but I’m one-hundred-percent muscle. Okay, not quite, but I have seriously low body fat. And I have zero cellulite. Girls hate my ass. Literally, it’s perfect. I got a nice ass instead of nice boobs; it’s a fair trade, I guess.
“Okay, maybe it’s more of a euphemism, but I’m not sure why that matters. Why aren’t you fucking me like you’ve been talking about doing for the past goddamn month?”
Randy lowers himself until my back hits the mattress again and his chest is pressed against mine. Then he shifts his hips forward. “You mean like this?”
And there it is. The reason for the Magnums. Mother of all things holy, is he ever equipped. I think I might moan. I’m not sure.
“Or do you mean more like this?” He starts to move—filling and retreating, over and over, harder and harder.
“Oh my God.” It’s definitely more groan than words—not like it matters. I’m sure the way I’m clinging to him is a decent indicator of exactly what I mean.
Randy throws the covers off, which is a relief because I’m getting sweaty under these blankets, and I’m wearing actual makeup. I don’t want it to start melting. At least the sheets are dark, so it’s not going to stain if any of it rubs off on them. He leans to the left, and the angle is beyond stellar.
All of a sudden I’m blinded by light. Not the light of orgasm, but the light of the bedside lamp. Randy cradles my head, his palm resting at the nape of my neck.
“Now you want the lights on?”
“I want to see your face when I fuck you.”
I don’t dare close my eyes. Blinking almost isn’t an option. Any snarky comment dies when he stops thrusting and starts grinding. Holy fuck. I’m not prepared for this. At all. I’ve never seen anyone look so… primal? Like he wants to… ravage? Consume?
The hand that isn’t holding my head skims my hip and hooks behind my knee, drawing it up until it’s at his ribs, making him go even deeper. I think I may actually implode when this orgasm hits. I can feel it, traveling through my spine, spreading like electric fingers across my skin. I figure I might as well go one step further and rest my ankle on his shoulder.