“Sperm bank?” I ask, weirdly turned on by talk of his virility. As if it wasn’t clear from his raw masculinity. He dips his fingers deep inside me and fucks me, thumbing my clit until I squirm, then lifts his hand and begins tracing a pattern across my belly. A word, I realize, looking down to try to make it out.
“Something like that,” he says. I think I see a shadow of pain drift across his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.
“Are you marking me? Did you just write your name on me in your own semen?”
He smirks. “Figure it’s only fair. You marked me with your claws. You’re a fucking wildcat, you know that? And a screamer.”
I stare at him in shock. “I am not a screamer! I’ve just never had orgasms that good.”
“Baby, you were screaming in that airplane bathroom so loud I had to shove my tongue down your throat to keep you quiet.”
He’s grinning now, and I huff, curling a hand around the back of his neck to pull him closer. “I think it’s your dick that’s the rock star, and I’m pretty damn close to becoming his biggest fan.”
I shift onto my side and cup his balls with my other hand, a shiver sliding up through my arm as I grab hold of his cock next and stroke the full, impressive length. He’s heavy in my hand, the skin hot and smooth, a delicious, uniform girth that curves in just the right way to hit me where it counts when he’s inside me. I explore all the way to his tip where I trace my fingertips around the ridge at his head, teasing a little harder at the slick wetness just at the peak of his frenulum.
A growl rumbles up from inside his chest, hot breath gusting out between his lips in a rush as our mouths meet. A hand job evidently isn’t good enough, though. When we part, he pushes me onto my belly and moves behind me, grabbing my hips and hauling me up. I yelp at the abrupt change, but the surprise turns into pure pleasure when he spears me again with his cock.
This time he moves slower, rocking against me at a leisurely pace as he strokes his hands up and down my back, then around to cup my breasts. He wraps his arms around me and hauls me up against his chest, mouth to my ear.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he rumbles. “So fucking glad I found you again. You were in my dreams this whole time, like some gorgeous, elusive angel. I never even got to say goodbye. But here we are, and you . . . Goddamn, Callie, you fit me like a fucking glove.”
“Mason . . .” I whisper before he drops one hand between my thighs to stroke my clit. He pushes me right up to the edge before he stops and pulls out, leaving me breathless and off-balance. I twist around to see what’s wrong.
“Turn around, sweetness. I want to see you when you come for me.” He remains kneeling in the center of the bed when I turn fully, then takes my hands and places them at the back of his neck. Following his lead, I straddle his hips, rising just enough so he can position himself before I slowly slide back down.
A satisfied moan escapes me and I bite my lip, realizing how loud the sound actually was.
Mason laughs. “That’s how it starts.”
“But you feel so amazing, how can I not scream?”
I start to move, and he rocks his hips up to meet me. I have more leverage to move in this position, but he guides the rhythm with a hand on my hip, the same as when we were dancing, and I let him lead. When the pleasure spikes, I cry out again, hyperaware of my own voice, yet not caring one bit. I hold on tighter, digging my fingers into his back.
He hisses and murmurs, “Easy, wildcat.”
I realize in the midst of my lust-filled haze that my nails are scoring his skin.
“S-sorry,” I stutter, my apology barely coherent because I’m already barreling toward another epic orgasm.
He laughs again. “Baby, do what makes you feel good. I want your marks on me. Just find a spot that isn’t already damaged from last time.”
I try to move my hands, to not dig in, but I don’t try as hard after his encouragement. He wants me to mark him because that’s exactly what he intends to do to me, and the idea is so primal it sends me over the edge, screaming into the abyss of pleasure.
The world tilts and I find myself on my back, staring up at his broad, shadowed frame. My orgasm has barely subsided when he pulls out and strokes himself to his own end, his creamy spend painting stripes across my tender pussy, the sight of it only seeming to draw out his climax.
He finally releases himself, then gives my splayed center a teasing stroke with his thumb, smearing his mess around.
“You going to add your last name now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow teasingly.
He gives me a satisfied, drunken smile before lowering to the bed beside me. I turn on my side to face him and he does the same, looking into my eyes.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he says, raising a hand to my cheek, pushing a tangled strand of hair behind my ear. I don’t even mind that his fingers are still wet and sticky and leave a small streak against my temple.
My insides twist at the raw emotion in his words because I feel them too. It’s an alien, yet wonderful sensation to want someone so much I’d fuck him all night if I believed we both had it in us—that I’m happy to let him use his own essence to paint words on my body. But my energy is flagging, and I don’t
