Larger Than Life

by Alison Kent

  She knew that because of the words he bit off that were sharp and raw and filled with more feeling than any soft seduction or whispered pillow talk, the words of a pirate, not a very nice man. His shaft was thick. And long. Just as she'd known it would be.

  What she hadn't known was that her fingers would barely meet around him. Nor had she any idea how tight his skin would have to stretch to accommodate the blood filling the head of his cock. The slit in the tip opened. She thumbed it. He groaned, a sound he repeated, one she didn't think would fade because she had no intention of letting him go.

  She reached back then, cupped his heavy balls, which tightened as she rolled them in her palm. She waited for a shudder to course through him before she released him and asked, "Am I hurting you yet?"

  "You're getting there," he answered, and then he moved his hands back to her waistband, slipped his ringers beneath it, and slowly pulled down her pants. "But you'll do a lot better job of it naked."

  Cool air hit the moist heat between her legs and she shivered. "And I suppose now I'm supposed to do the same for you."

  "You'd bloody well better," he ground out, this time reaching for the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head and off. "God, Neva. You're so fucking beautiful. I can't decide where I want to start."

  Her chest was aching, her voice shaking, her eyes blurring with all that the break in his voice made her feel. "Maybe by getting into bed?"

  He shook his head. "I was thinking about getting to my knees."

  "Probably not such a good idea in your condition. Especially since the come-along's outside in the truck."

  He laughed, but then her hands were at his waist and there was nothing he found funny about that. He sobered, tensed, waiting for her to strip him. She took her time, not so much because she didn't want to hurt him but because she wanted this to last, this anticipation, this moment of decision, this taut sense of change.

  She eased the fabric down his buttocks then stretched the waistband to accommodate the bulge of his erection. He wasn't wearing boxers or briefs, and so when released from confinement, his cock thrust upward, seeking her attention and not too proud to beg. He moved his hands to her shoulders; she bent to slide his shorts down his legs to the floor. And while she was down there, she decided to stay.

  She used their discarded clothing to pillow her knees and knelt in front of him. He was beautiful, thick and full and turgid, a ripe plum tempting her palate, full to bursting in a deep purple hue. Or so he appeared in the moonlight. She placed her palm beneath his shaft, stroked her thumb over his bulbous glans, loving his texture and heat and all the sounds he made when she adjusted the pressure of her touch.

  His thighs tensed, as if those muscles were the only ones keeping him on his feet. The last thing she wanted was for him to fall, and so she scooted back toward the window. This time he was the one who followed her lead, stepping out of his shorts, bracing his hands on the window frame, leaning his weight into his arms and looking down.

  She locked her gaze with his, parted her lips, and took him into her mouth. His heat was the first thing she noticed as she cupped the head of his cock with her tongue, licked her way along the sensitive underside. He widened his stance, thrust forward. She took him to the back of her throat, her lips pressed tight to the base of his shaft.

  And then she sucked him, pulling away slowly until she held nothing in her mouth but his tight mushroom head. She teased him, the slit in the tip, the ridge where sensation centered, the flat surface of skin stretched taut, the divisions on either side of the rigid seam. Licking away the salty bead of moisture he released, she wrapped the fingers of one hand around his shaft, used the other on his balls.

  She held his weight, cupped one side then the other, rolled his testicles with her fingers, sliding one between to separate his sac. Boldly, she explored, finding the hard extension of his erection that ran behind and pressing against it.

  Vulgar words spilled from his mouth. Sticky liquid spilled from the slit she toyed with her tongue. He clenched against her probing finger, thrust forward, eased back, setting a slow steady rhythm in and out of her mouth.

  It was a rhythm she wanted to feel between her legs, and slid one hand to her sex, pressing a finger to the side of her clit as it throbbed. She wanted to come. She wanted to come now. The wait was testing her patience. But Mick wasn't having any of it. He pulled free of her mouth, hooked his hands beneath her arms, and set her back on her feet.

  "My turn," he said, his jaw tight, his voice grating as he turned her and backed her into the bed. She sat, scooted into the center of the mattress. On his hands and knees, he followed her, crawled over her, loomed above. Bracing her upper body on her elbows, she drew her knees close, her heels to her hips, the thrill of the chase burning a trail down her spine.

  Mick grinned, his teeth a slash of white in his wickedly gorgeous face, and shook his head. In response, her belly tightened, tightened further when his large hands covered her knees. She opened; he leaned forward, his palms flat on the sheet right above her hips. Flutters replaced her heartbeat; she could hardly breathe.

  He wet his lower lip, captured her gaze and held it as he descended. He kissed her low on her belly, dipped his tongue in and out of her navel, caught the loose skin beneath and sucked it until he left a sexy red bruise. She couldn't remember the last time a man had given her a hickey. This one she would never forget.

  And then he moved lower, his coarse whiskers tickling her clit as he made his way down. She wanted to close her eyes, to lie back and enjoy, to do nothing but experience his lips and his tongue, his fingers and his teeth. But he was devilishly compelling, the way he teased her with that brigand's grin, and there was nothing she could do. She had to watch.

  Chin tucked to her chest, she did, scooching her feet farther out to the side, her knees falling all the way open. Mick drew in a deep breath and shook his head as if her wanton ways amazed him. She wanted to laugh, to tell him that was nothing, but he closed his lips around her clit, leaving her capable of only a moan.

  He sucked her, licked her, dug the tip of his tongue beneath the bud and pushed up, catching her with his teeth. Her hips surged off the bed as he bit her. Her head fell back and she cried her way through the sting of pleasure, shuddered, shivered, shook. Releasing her, he moved lower, nipping at her flesh, drawing on her lips, pressing the flat of his tongue through her folds.

  She'd been dying for this orgasm, dying. Yet it was too soon. She wasn't ready. She wanted more of what he was doing. She wanted to teeter on that edge for as long as he'd let her, to hold on and make this night last. When she looked back, it was as if he'd been waiting, wanting her to watch.

  He held her gaze, slid his thumbs to her entrance and opened her, then pushed into her with his tongue. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with her effort to hold still, hold on, but her blood was running heavy and hot. Desire pooled in her belly; he found the spot and licked, lapping her up, drinking all that she gave him.

  She tried so hard not to come, but her will was no match for her body. Or for his insistence, his lips, which returned to suck her clit, his fingers spreading her moisture as they slid deep, his thumb settling over her puckered rear entrance and pushing.

  It was all too much—he was everywhere at once, taking her apart, turning her inside out. She burst, a fantastic pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow sensation that went on forever. He stayed with her all the way. His fingers, his tongue, his lips.

  He never left her, but eased her back to a place where, when she opened her eyes, she was afraid she would find out she'd died. Dear Lord. What else had she been missing? And how soon could he show her?

  Stretching out her legs and the kinks from her hips, she groaned. "Can we do that again? Or do I need to change the sheets first?"

  He sat back on his knees, his palms on his thighs. She tucked her chin to her chest and stared. At the pulse jumping in his temple. At the tic hammering in his jaw. At the head of his penis bobbing and
straining toward his belly. At the lines of pain etched in his face about which he hadn't—and wouldn't—complain.

  Finally, he found enough of his voice to speak. It was gravelly and thick when he did. "No need. Unless you plan to spend half the night doing laundry."

  She felt the spirit of Blackbeard descend. "No, mate. I plan to spend all night doing you."

  He didn't think he'd ever hurt in his life the way he was hurting now. A wrong move of his torso left his ribs protesting. A wrong move elsewhere and tape pulled, scabs tore, bruises ached as if they were as blue as his balls. Not to mention his cock, which he swore was about to split its skin. And the woman expected him to keep pace with her all night.

  Good thing it took more than pain to keep him down. He crawled up over her, loving the way she tried not to shiver but couldn't stop the aftershocks. She giggled, a nervous, manic twitter.

  He wanted to laugh because she tickled him so, but he didn't. Laughing hurt, and the reminder of his condition pissed him off. She had the most amazing tits and he couldn't even straddle her chest and fuck them.

  Instead, he rolled onto his back and patted his abs. "Get up here and ride me like a pony."

  She turned to her side, propped herself up on her elbow, reached down and wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock. "I take it back. You deserved to be treated in the large animal suite. You are hung like no pony I know."

  He grew what felt like another three inches. And then he growled, "Do I need to remind you of the fact that I'm not a very nice man?"

  "You don't scare me, Mick Savin." She said it, and then she was the one hovering above him, the one crawling around the bed on her hands and knees with her gorgeous ass in the air. "You or your big bad gun. In fact"—she was kneeling between his legs now, her hands underneath his thighs, pushing up—"I think you're the nicest man I know."

  She leaned forward, flicked her tongue over the head of his cock. He thrust upward, filled her mouth. It was like she'd taken lessons, the way she sucked him, the way she knew where he wanted her thumb as she held him, where he wanted her lips and her tongue.

  He opened his legs wider. Smart woman that she was, she took the hint, licking her way down his rod to his nuts, which were ready to crack. And then her fingertips found their way to his back door and knocked.

  He couldn't take any more. He hooked his heels around her thighs and pulled her up his body. Canary feathers fluttering when she smiled. She climbed over him and leaned forward. He grabbed her tits and buried his face between them, breathing her in, loving the way she smelled. Like clean skin and sunshine and summer in the wind.

  All the things missing in his life were right here. She was everything he wanted and never thought he'd find. The jolting realization would have easily brought him to his knees had he not been flat on his back already. And if she hadn't been nibbling her way across his collarbone, nipping him beneath the chin, nuzzling up against his cheek.

  He reached down between their bodies, took his dick in his hand, and guided himself into place. She felt him there and opened, sitting back, sliding down, swallowing him whole. He throbbed as she stilled, throbbed harder as she stirred.

  And then because he feared he was just about to blow it, he ordered her, "Stop. Don't move. Just. . . don't move."

  "Am I hurting you?" she asked softly.

  "Only in all the right ways." His balls felt like they'd been tethered to the end of a paddle and slammed back up into his gut.

  Jaw clenched, he glanced down to where the base of his shaft spread her wide. He didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight, his cock stretching her open, her folds exposed and glistening.

  And then she milked him. Without moving a visible muscle, she clenched him, held him, her smile telling him she knew how close he was to coming. He wondered if she'd take it in her mouth if he asked. He wondered if she'd lift that ass in the air and let him have her from behind.

  He wondered why the bloody hell he was painting mental pictures of the ways he wanted to spend the rest of the night instead of making her come again now.

  Reaching down, he thumbed her clit where the hard nub stood at attention. She wrapped her arms around his uplifted knees and rotated her hips, grinding down hard against him. Eyes closed, she bit at her lower lip and rode him up and down until he began to pump.

  He watched the slide of his shaft in and out, watched her breasts bounce, her hair swing free. He'd always been so strong; she reduced him to rubble. A tingling, tickling surge of heat coiled at the base of his spine and sparked. That was it. He was bloody well done.

  He held her by the hips and drove upward, groaning as he came. She cried out as she followed, falling forward and bracing her hands above his shoulders on the bed. She continued to crush their bodies together, continued to belly dance, to rub her clit against his shaft, to squeeze him, grip him, wring him dry.

  "Mick," she panted. "Oh my god." And then she pulled free and slid onto the mattress at his side. "That's one hell of a pony."

  He chuckled, smiled; it was all he could do. Sweat coated his body. His pulse thundered. His fingers and toes tingled as the blood that had been elsewhere flowed back. Still, his dick stood at half-mast. Five minutes, he'd be ready to go again. To spend the night with Neva riding him like she'd promised, working him and wearing him out until both of them went blind. She was worth it.

  She was worth everything. Even the sharp stabbing pain to his heart. And when she curled up against him, tucked her head beneath his chin, her hair smelling like wildflowers and feeling like strands of Indian silk, he wondered how he was going to tell her that he had to leave.

  The sun waved streamers of red, orange, and yellow through the Munroes' kitchen window, sparkling off the faucet and stove front and countertops, which Jeanne always kept spotlessly clean. Yancey should've been at the office by now instead of sitting around thinking about his family. But they were all he had on his mind.

  He'd had a hell of a short weekend, a hell of a messy weekend. Ever since Friday he'd been waiting for Monday to roll around. Start over. New beginning. Make it all up to Spencer and Jeanne. Prove that he really wasn't a big bad ogre. More like a teddy bear with a couple of tears.

  But he'd been dragging the trash from the cans at the back of the house out to the burning bin before daylight when his eye had been caught by a shimmering piece of turquoise lace. It wasn't anything he remembered ever seeing his wife wear and, well, curiosity killed the cat.

  Bikini panties and a push-up bra. At least what was left of the lingerie. Not Jeanne's style, and he was pretty damn sure neither piece was her size. Which meant he was going to have to have a come-to-Jesus meeting over breakfast with his son—not the foot on which he wanted to start off the day or the week. Especially since the last time he'd seen the boy he'd been dodging Spencer's fist.

  When Jeanne had finally come home from Jonnie's on Saturday night, she'd climbed into bed beside him and told him about Spencer slamming through the house earlier in the day and holing up in his room ever since. Yancey hadn't been much interested in Spencer, only in getting his wife's nightgown unbuttoned, but he'd promised he'd talk to the boy.

  On Sunday, by the time he'd come downstairs to find Jeanne making eggs with biscuits and red-eye gravy, it had been too late for church and the boy had been gone. Telling his mother earlier he and his friends would be out at the Bremmer place most of the day.

  That was okay with Yancey. The boy was helping out a man in need and that was as good as going to church in his book. But then this morning, Monday morning, and the trash, and there wasn't much good at all in what Yancey had found.

  He wasn't trained in forensics but he knew enough to differentiate between a slice and a rip or a tear. The garments had been stabbed or slit, and that brought to mind too much of what had happened to Jeanne almost twenty years ago.

  He wasn't going to sit back and have Spencer disrespecting, mistreating, or harming any woman. He wanted to date Candy Roman, the boy would
damn well be a gentleman about what they did together. Rough play was one thing. The blade of a knife was another.

  At the sound of Spencer's heavy boots pounding down the stairs, Yancey palmed his coffee mug and looked up. "Your mother's still sleeping. You might want to keep the noise down."

  "Sorry." Spencer trudged toward the refrigerator, grabbed milk and orange juice in one arm, then raided the pantry for the Raisin Bran and the Rice Krispies. He dropped the lot on the table where the night before his mother had set out his glass, spoon, and bowl.

  "What's on your calendar for today?" Yancey asked. The boy had been working odd jobs since graduation, picking up spending money here and there, enough to keep his truck running good enough to get him to Lubbock next month.

  "I'm doing the yard around the post office this morning. It's grown up pretty high in the back. Then I'm checking in with Doc Hill. He has some cleanup he needs done around the clinic. Trash to burn. Stuff like that."

  Yancey watched as Spencer poured the two cereals into the same bowl and flooded the mixture with milk. "Look, about Friday night—"

  "It's done. It's over. I don't want to talk about it." And now he couldn't because he'd shoveled his mouth full of food.

  Talking wasn't exactly on Yancey's list of fun things to do either, but they needed to get this out of the way. "It had been a long day. I'm sorry it went sour. I took a lot of crap out on you that I shouldn't have."

  Spencer nodded, shrugged, and filled his glass with orange juice, keeping his gaze averted, avoiding the situation, the subject matter, everything but that noisy cereal blabbering away in his bowl.

  Yancey felt his frustration rise. Yeah, he'd screwed up. But he wasn't the bad guy here. He was just a father doing his job, raising his son to be a responsible man. "Here's the thing, Spencer—"

  Spencer groaned. "Do we have to do this now? I'm already running late."

  "You're goddamn tooting we have to do this now." Yancey reached into the seat of the chair behind the table and grabbed up the trashed lingerie. He slammed the pieces down on the table so hard milk sloshed out of Spencer's bowl.