Rex by Beth Michele Page A

it.
    “Fuck me harder, Rex,” she screams out, and I rock into her, in and out, harder, rougher. I groan when she squeezes my ass again. “Rub my clit,” she begs, and I lower my finger to the pink folds of her pussy, circling her, moans of pleasure dropping from her mouth.
    “You feel so good,” I groan, watching heavy breaths fall from her parted lips, lust coloring her cheeks.
    “I’m gonna, come,” she calls out, and there’s no way I’m going to last either. She feels too fucking good.
    “Come for me,” I groan, my neck corded tight, cock ready to burst inside of her.
    “Ahhh,” she whimpers as she spasms around me, her pussy throbbing, sending me over the edge as I continue to pump into her.
    “Fuck,” I growl, as I come ferociously inside of her before crashing my lips to hers, the salt from our sweat mixed with the sweetness of her lips.
    I break from her mouth, panting, my head falling against her breast. It’s not until she starts laughing that I raise my head. “What’s so funny?” I try to catch my breath. “I’m not sure there was anything funny about that .”
    “I’ve never fucked on a table before,” she giggles, “and that was amazing.”
    I shake my head and laugh, too. “Yeah, it was. And… I’ve never fucked on a table before, either,” I admit, suddenly unsure as to why I feel the need to spout off when I’m around her. It’s like she’s some kind of fucking truth serum.
    “Really?” she asks, seemingly happy with my response.
    “Yeah, really.”
    “Hmph,” she says with a wide smile. “Well, I’m actually thinking this table should be reserved for fucking. I don’t want to eat on it anymore after that, anyway.”
    “You’re insane,” I reply, rolling off of her and lying on my back.
    “So where’s the most unusual place you’ve ever had sex?” She shifts on her side, propping her cheek on her fist.
    “I don’t know if they’re that unusual, but I had sex once in a parking garage, and another time in a press box at a baseball game. What about you, oh adventurous one?”
    “Hmph.” Her eyes flick upward in thought. “Probably in the fitting room at a department store. There was a curtain of course.”
    She’s silent for a minute, almost contemplative, before reaching out a finger to follow the lines of the guitar strings running alongside my neck. No words are spoken, but I know they’re coming. Questions. More fucking questions. And so I wait, hoping she’ll remain quiet.
    But they come anyway.
    “I love this tattoo… does it have any special meaning….” She hesitates, knowing how much I enjoy answering questions.
    My wall instantly begins to slide up between us, but when I turn my head sideways to look at her, something in her eyes makes me wonder whether she really is like all the others. She almost looks like she cares. But the war I constantly fight within myself won’t allow me to take my wall down. Instead, I reach over it, handing her this small piece of information.
    “It’s to remind me of my brother. He loved strumming the guitar as a kid. He couldn’t play for shit, really, and sounded pretty awful, but,” I shrug, “it was his favorite thing to do.”
    She continues sketching the strings with her finger as my mind roams to my freckle-faced brother. “What was his name?” she asks softly.
    I huff out a deep breath, not wanting to reveal anything else, still warring with a brain that thinks she has some ulterior motive. Most women do. But for some unknown reason, I continue. “Tyler,” I respond, emotion clogging my throat. “His name was Tyler.”
    “Tyler,” she repeats, and then she does something completely unexpected. So unexpected, I don’t know what to make of it. She leans forward, placing a kiss to my tattoo before lying back down on the table. Her lips no longer on my skin.
    But I still feel them.

 
     
     
    I’m not sure why I just did that. There’s a part of me that feels it was too intimate. But I saw