Up For Review:
Madison
She hooks her heels around his legs, really digs them in his thighs. While he's on top of her.
The flat of her tongue slides across the stubble of his chin, along the tender welt on his cheek, starting his engine. He's not even trying. When he does he rears over her, his veins like wires in his arms, building all that leverage.
Their first time together confused her, his body rising smooth and steady as a hydraulic pump, and she thought he was done. Some guys aren't finishers, especially hard-asses like him; when you get them to bed, their hand isn't good as they led you to believe. But how wrong was that? Have you watched a man lifting weights, that pregnant heartbeat before he hits, when he summons the bull inside him, to his chest, his shoulders?
That's where he is. Suspended in air. Ready to drive, the machine ticking at her pouty lips, the nose just dangerously in the well.
And Lord, her own crying that night scared her. A tornado dropped like a finger from the sky, drilling into her Mrs., plowing right up against a point she hadn't known existed. Good thing Madison was by her daddy's, she smirked during her cigarette afterward, biting a nail.
And Madison will be suspicious come morning, but the little ones will be happy to see their Daddy. It's her way. She'll come around.
But no use for quiet tonight.
"Now fuck Mama, don't keep her waiting." Grabbing her working boy by the hairs at the back of his neck. "You've got something to show her, ain't you? Bullshitter?"
The scar down his forehead deepens, then relaxes. The swiveling against her slot stops. He raises a hand, and reaches for his beer. Pouring it down his throat the way guys do, the way the rush of liquid tick-tick-ticks leaving the can, a loose stream escapes that she dodges with her head, and she snickers because it feels nice on the burn between her first two fingers and her thumb from yesterday's double-shift, and because she won't let him psych her, because it's all about that with him and bed, crushing the can and tossing it to the wall.
The wound glows ripe scarlet, tiny beads of blood along the crest, and her fingernails tingle in sympathy. She licks the pad of her thumb, bringing it to his cheek, but he shirks it away. Her snigger disappears as he seizes her wrists.
He fills her with one thrust; her breath escapes, but she massages him, clenching her muscles around it. Guys are damned stupid about their Oscars, and this one especially, but when she first saw it she almost got her purse to leave. Not the length, but the knobby. All right, he looked good shooting pool, and had that boyish grin (he wore bangs then), but no-no, did I order a portobello mushroom? she thought. Your jaw is about to fall off with some of these guys anyway, so nuh-uh. Good thing he doesn't mind noisy, or he wouldn't get any at all.
And now that beautiful bad thing is inside her again, getting stroked until she feels it purr under her petting. It's some bit of pride - some can bounce quarters for drinks, some are good at Lottery, but no one is better at what she does. When others collected Holly Hobbie, she exercised her, thousands of hours in bed with her headphones on, her refuge; even after they removed her lock, it was one thing she couldn't get in trouble for, because how could she for something they can't see, the one thing that was hers, her secret power, that only the chosen in life would know.
He is loving it, being worshiped in that no-better place. Working him, squeezing that head, until he begins to squirm, because he can't help himself. She knew they were coming, those deep grinding thrusts, coming like clockwork, trying to pull free from the succulent vise, rising, stronger, desperate. Grinning the way she does when she's got the right time, and right there flexing her legs, that ran freshman track, constricts them until he's up against her little girl every time. She works as hard as him, always.
His bucking builds, her heels fight deeper, riding him higher. He knows she don't go easy; it's like paying toll. She cranes forward as her shoulders bounce the headboard like sad old Mrs. Beasley that Papa threw away. It takes her where he blooms inside her, where they're fused as one, where she breathes, squeezing on the bottoms of her lungs, panting for sweet air.
Her wail emanates from even deeper, a sleeping seed that climbs, quavering, all of her being carried in the sound, even after he sloughs to her side, panting, and her skin tingles in an aura of searing white bliss.
Absently flicking a loose corner of wallpaper with her fingernail, eyes sweeping the broad muscles sloping down to his waist, the dimples of his ass, the curly down of his thighs and calves. His shoulder flexes with each long breath, and beneath it and all else beats a good heart. A hard-working heart. One worth a chance, just one, she'd promise her in the morning.