The Naughty Boxset

by Jasinda Wilder

  He thrusts, and I whimper; he drives deep, and now I can tilt my hips and sink against him and he goes even deeper and the sense of fullness and completion is so overwhelming another gasping sob is ripped from me. I sag forward, pulling away from him, moaning at the emptiness throughout me at the loss of him, and then I fall back, slamming my ass against him, hard. He groans in shock, and the next time I pull forward and begin my downward slide, he thrusts to meet me—his hips crash against me with a resounding slap, and his erection is all I feel, moving in me and through me, deep and deep and deeper. The next thrust, I lift up, balancing upright, stretching him away from his body and sitting down on him, impaling him deeper than ever.

  His hands circle my hips and now he lifts, guiding me upward, and controlling the downward force, so I take him harder than ever, faster yet. I feel a crescendo rising in me, feel the swell in my core, the heat building and the pressure intensifying. My softness and his steel clash and merge in an ever-faster rhythm, slaps and moans filling the air, his grunts and my shrieks woven around each other.

  I can hold it back no longer—I’ve been pushing the climax away, not wanting this to end, but he is relentless.

  He senses me approaching the edge, perhaps feeling it in the way I clench around him, perhaps hearing it in the way my breath catches and the whimpers turn to screams. His hands cup my breasts and he relinquishes control over my rhythm, letting me take myself to the edge and past. He pinches my nipples, and I cry out—he flicks them, licks them, and I lose myself to the crushing force of my climax. I press my hands to his belly, just above the joining of our bodies, and now I can’t stop the approach of the climax even if I wanted to. I embrace it, now.

  “Come for me, Imogen,” Jesse growls, and his words may as well be a command, one that I have no choice but to obey.

  I writhe on top of him, grinding him through me, hips gyrating in wild, helpless circles, and my breasts shake and tremble and bounce and sway, and his hands are on my hips, encouraging me to go faster, faster—which I do. Faster, faster. My hands stab into my hair, yanking it back, and then as the climax becomes inevitable, a tsunami of smashing, inundating, scream-eliciting ecstasy.

  “Jesse!” I cry, not just crying out loud, but actually sobbing, a scream of his name as I reach the cusp of climax.

  “Let me feel you come, Imogen,” he snarls, driving relentlessly into me. “Let me feel you come around me.”

  My right hand steals automatically to my core, two fingers pressing and circling, and I fling myself into oblivion.

  “God that’s fucking hot,” he growls.

  My eyes snap open and I realize he’s watching me, devouring my every move—my left hand is clutched to my left breast, cupping and squeezing, while my right drives me to the furthest, highest peaks of orgasm; he has my left hip in a crushing, bruising grip I can’t get enough of while his right kneads my right breast, flicking my nipple with his thumb, adding to the fury of my orgasm.

  I’m screaming and screaming and screaming as I come—not wordless screams, though, but his name, over and over and over.

  When the orgasm is wrung out of me, I’m left limp, and he’s still hard inside me.

  “God, Jesse,” I whimper. “Oh my god.”

  His grin is predatory. “My turn,” he rumbles.

  “Your…turn?” I breathe, incredulous. “You haven’t come yet?”

  “Did you feel me come? Did you hear me come?”

  “No,” I say, my voice faint.

  “Because I didn’t. I was waiting for you. I needed to feel you come first.” He lifts me up, pushes me backward, off of him. “And now it’s my turn.”

  “Oh—oh god,” I whisper. “Please, Jesse, I need it.” I reach for him, aching at the loss of him. “Give it to me.”

  I’m on my back now, and I’ve never wanted anything so badly as I want to feel him on top of me. He crawls over me, and I widen my thighs for him, welcoming him. Begging for him. His eyes rake over me, spread out beneath him, breasts drooping heavily to either side, belly heaving, breathless, from the still-quaking aftershocks of my orgasm, my core wet with soaking need, waiting for him.

  “You are…so fucking beautiful, Imogen.”

  Now why the hell does that make me cry? Actual tears drip from my eyes, at his words, unbidden and unwelcome and unstoppable.

  His thumbs wipe them away, and his expression is…I would say tender, if it wasn’t for the ravenous, primal, seductive hunger in his eyes. I grasp him as he approaches me, taking his thick, latex-sheathed erection in my fist and guiding him to me. He lets me, shifting toward me, shuffling on his knees.

  He doesn’t just flop over me in the usual missionary position—oh no, Jesse O’Neill does nothing so pedestrian as that. He remains on his knees, and he takes my ankles in his hands and tucks my feet into his armpits, stretching my legs apart, thighs in a wide V, knees pushed backward—opening me wider than I’ve ever been, so I can take him deeper than I’ve ever been filled. I cry out, a strangled, sob-laden, shock-laced sound of abandon.

  Jesse starts slowly, as if we’ve just begun. As if I haven’t already come harder than I’ve ever come in my life. His hands cradle my inner thighs, gripping the tender silk of my flesh just to either side of our joining. And he drives, slowly, deliberately, into me. Pulls out. Slides in. With each thrust, he adjusts his angle so every time he fills me it feels slightly different, a new sensation, a subtle difference in the way his arousal strikes into me. It’s like he’s searching for something with his thrusts, as if they’re questing, seeking the perfect angle.

  What is he looking for? I don’t know.

  I can’t ask, I’m too breathless, too lost in sensation. Too lost in him.

  And then, with a shattering detonation, he finds it. He finds the perfect angle. He knows when he finds it, too, because I scream without warning, my hips crashing helplessly against him. He thrusts now at that precise angle, faster and faster, each thrust dragging another scream out of me, forcing my hips to move, to match him, each thrust accompanied by a guttural grunt from him and a breathless scream from me.

  “Jesse—” I gasp, “holy shit, Jesse, what are you doing to me?”

  He has no words for me in reply, and I want none, need none—as long as he doesn’t stop.

  He increases his pace with each thrust, never varying his angle, and I’m shaking with the force of his lovemaking—if you can call it that. It’s more carnal than that, I realize. It’s far more primal and animal than lovemaking. The raw carnality of this is undeniable, exhilarating, freeing.

  He’s fucking me, and I can’t get enough.

  I abandon myself to the furious eroticism of this, with Jesse, taking each pounding thrust and begging for more with my screams and my driving hips and my clawing hands.

  How long can he last? I feel like we’ve been moving together for so long, for hours. Longer than I’ve ever had sex, certainly. And he seems no closer to his own release than when he started. I’m losing it, losing the battle to keep from coming yet again. I can’t deny myself the climax, can’t deny him his mastery over my body. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  “One more, Imogen,” he snarls. “Give me one more.”

  “God—Jesse, I—oh god,” I breathe. “I need yours.”

  “I’ll give it to you—as soon as you give me one more.” His strong, work-roughened hands cup my inner thighs, pressing my legs farther apart, until he’s gripping me at the creases where thighs meet core, and his thumbs spread my stretched, tender hood further open, and then the wide pad of his thumb finds my hypersensitive center and circles, as if I needed further stimulation to reach the edge. “Now, Imogen—come for me, right now.”

  He barks the command, and I obey, yet again.

  I thrash under him, writhe in his hands and grind against his thrusting erection. I take him deep, and ache with the fullness of him, and scream with the wrenching, spasmodic fury of my third orgasm.

  He drives into me through wave after wa
ve of climax, and I’m sobbing yet again.

  And once more, I realize he’s not done with me yet.

  He pulls out of me entirely, and kneels over me. “Hands and knees, Imogen.”

  “Wh-what?” I squeak.

  “Remember what I said, earlier? I want you on your hands and knees in my bed.”

  I need him. I need his orgasm. I need his release. I need it.

  So, despite being shaky and weak and breathless from three earth-shaking orgasms, I roll to my belly and push up on my hands and knees. I’ve never in my life felt so self-conscious as I do in this moment, my big flabby ass in the air and spread out in front of him. My chest tightens, and my throat closes, and I’m close to losing the thread of arousal, so terrified am I that seeing me like this will turn him off.

  Nicholas never wanted me like this.

  As if the thought of my ex had been an audible thing, Jesse snarls. “Quit that shit, Imogen.”

  “Wha—? What?” I breathe.

  “I can fucking feel you shutting down right now.”

  “I don’t feel sexy like this,” I admit, the words barely audible.

  He actually laughs—he has the gall to laugh. “Imogen, Jesus. How the hell do you not know how goddamned perfect you are?”

  I can only shake my head, trying not to cry. I twist to look at him over my shoulder. He meets my eyes, and there is nothing in his expression but pure, unfiltered need. God, he’s gorgeous: Kneeling behind me, erection thick and upright and enormous and perfect, wet from me, his muscles shifting and powerful, his tanned skin slick and beaded with sweat from making me come so hard, his hair as untamed as the man himself, a jet-black mess of thick locks around his eyes and jaw. He’s staring at me, his eyes devouring me. I cannot deny the arousal in his gaze, and he’s looking at me, like this, in a position I find…not demeaning, not humiliating…I’m just self-conscious and unsure like this. But the look on his face as he kneels behind me is undeniable.

  As is the reverence in his hands as he reaches out to palm my buttocks. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes sliding to mine. “How do you not understand that you’re perfect? You’re exquisite, Imogen.”

  I swallow, and breathe. “Just, like this, I feel like—”

  He caresses the generous curve of my ass. “You think this is too big? Is that what you’re so self-conscious about?”

  I nod, not trusting my voice.

  He presses his hips forward, rubbing his arousal against the left cheek. “What does this feel like, to you?” he says, taking himself in hand, rubbing himself against the other side now. “Does this feel like I’m turned off?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “What’s it feel like, Imogen?” He drags the head against my seam. “Don’t you feel how turned on I am?”

  “Yes,” I breathe. “I feel it.”

  “I’m so hard it hurts,” he snarls. “I’ve never been so fucking turned on my life.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Jesse,” I whisper.

  He drags himself downward between the cheeks of my ass, a thick hard ridge between them, and then, using his fingers to find my entrance, notches himself inside me. “Does this feel like a lie?”

  God, he feels bigger and harder than ever. “No…” I breathe, on a whimper.

  He slides in, slowly. “You feel how hard I am?” he demands, his hands palming my ass.

  “I feel it.”

  “I’m not gonna last ten seconds like this, Imogen,” he growls. “So get ready.”

  “Jesse, god…” I gasp, feeling him push into me. “I’m ready.”

  “Are you?” he murmurs. “I’m not sure you are.”

  “I feel you, Jesse. You’re so big, so hard.”

  He pulls back, and drives in, so, so, so slowly. As if savoring every millimeter of slick sliding wetness of me. “Because of you. Because seeing you like this, on your knees for me, seeing this ass of yours—yes, this big, gorgeous, juicy perfect ass—” he caresses the round weight of me as he speaks, a tender, reverent, worshipful touch, “—all spread out just for me, getting to take you like this, feeling you like this…it’s fucking heaven, Imogen.”

  “Jesse…” I gasp, his words hitting me as hard as his slow, inexorable thrusts. “Keep talking. Tell me everything. I need to hear it from you.”

  He leans over me, reaching under to cup my breasts, pushing into me, his hips squashing hard against my ass. “You need to hear me say it? I told you before how much I love this,” he says, one hand caressing my butt as the other kneads my breast. “How much I love your ass.”

  “I don’t think I believed you,” I admit.

  “Do you believe me now?” he demands, leaning backward again, upright on his knees behind me, both hands on my buttocks now, pulling their heft apart so he can drive deeper with his slow thrusts.

  “I’m starting to,” I say.

  “What else do you need to hear to believe? Your ass is perfect, Imogen.” He has my ass in a palmed grip, braced for each thrust. “I can’t get enough of it.”

  “Take all of it, then,” I say. “Show me how much you like it.”

  He speeds up, as if he can’t help it. Each thrust finds his hips slapping against my butt, and each thrust drives him into me so I whimper, and gasp, and shriek at the beautiful penetration of him. And then, on his next thrust, he pats his hands against my buttocks.

  “How about that?” he says, “you like that?”

  I nod, turning to watch him over my shoulder. And, in this position—no longer on my hands and knees, but only on my knees, my entire torso flattened against the mattress to lift my ass high into the air, I can see the beauty in my curves. I see the sensual eroticism in the uplifted spread of my ass, in the curve of my spine, in the power in my legs. And now, as he taps my buttocks in time with each thrust, I begin to feel the burn of arousal scorching away the doubts, a conflagration of need searing away my self-consciousness.

  He smacks my ass harder. “You like that, Imogen?” he demands.

  I nod. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Do it again.”

  He drives into me, his hips smacking hard even as his hand slaps even harder. The sting is beautiful, adding to the crashing heat of my building climax.

  “You like it when I spank you?” he growls.

  “Yes, Jesse.”

  “Say it.”

  “I like it when you spank my ass,” I breathe, almost breaking into giggles hearing myself say that. But it’s too dirty and too arousing to be funny—especially as I realize he’s actively holding back.

  His jaw is clenched, and his thrusts are more measured, and he’s gasping raggedly, growling with each thrust. I need his orgasm. God, I need it. I’ve had three—almost four now—and I want to feel him lose control.

  “Jesse, please,” I whisper, brazenly begging. “Please.”

  “Please what, Imogen?”

  “Come,” I breathe. “Give it to me. Spank me, fuck me—let me feel you come.”

  “I don’t want it to end,” he says, even as he thrusts harder. “I don’t want to stop.”

  “I don’t either.” I push back into his thrusts, now, and my orgasm is not being brought on by his touch or my own, nor by his mastery over my body, but by raw arousal, by the raging, driving, coruscating need for him brought on by our joining. “But I need you. I need to feel you come. Please, Jesse.”

  He’s growling helplessly, and his thrusts speed up to a wild, manic, furious onslaught. He stops spanking me and just claws his hands into the trembling, bouncing flesh of my ass as he thrusts; his growls turn to grunts, and then his grunts turn to a roar, and he’s gone, utterly animal now, all control lost. I watch him over my shoulder and give myself to the moment, my own climax—my fourth—tearing through me like a wildfire, my screams meeting his bellowing snarl of orgasm.

  Each of his thrusts is accompanied by a greedy caress of my buttocks, and this, the way he palms and kneads and caresses my ass as he gives me his orgasm, does more to erase my self-con
sciousness than anything he could say. He could conceivably fool me and lie to me with his words, but he can’t fake that, not as obviously gone as he is into the depths of climax. His possessive appreciation for me in that moment of abandon cannot be faked.

  “Ohhhh…” he breathes, his moment of release turning him breathless, his roars and grunts gentled to a ragged, helpless groan. “Ohhhh fuck, Imogen…”

  I’m with him, then, squeezing and clenching around him, crying out, taking each slow hard grinding thrust with a backward drive, wanting it deeper, needing him harder.

  We come in unison.

  I feel him release even as my climax crescendos inside me, turning me into a writhing, thrashing, lust-crazed beast.

  His orgasm is endless, it feels like, thrust after thrust of grunting, groaning, cursing release, his hands slapping, cupping, gripping, kneading, and caressing my ass through it all.

  Finally, after a beautiful eternity, I collapse forward and he goes with me, all of his weight on me for a moment, leaving me unable to breathe and feeling exhilarated.

  And then he rolls over, and I—out of some kind of instinct I didn’t know I possessed—roll with him, needing to be close, needing his strength and heat and hardness and comfort after what we just experienced together.

  I hear his heart under my ear, a slamming, frenetic, racing beat. Even in the intimacy of cradling me in his arms, he finds a way to keep a hand on the outer curve of my ass, which makes me smile a secret, private smile of delight.

  I drowse.

  But I feel him, still—Jesse, his breathing ragged still, his heart hammering, his hands clutching me. He’s not relaxing—he’s tense.

  I lift up on an elbow and look at him. His expression is usually open and readable, his emotions on his sleeve. For once, I can’t read him.