Page 7 of Riding Dirty

She brushes the side of my face with her small hand and stares toward me. “You’re a nice guy. I…”

My lips lean into hers and before she’s finished her thought, we’re kissing.

Her hand is on the back of my neck. Mine is on her face, her shoulders, her full breast. My thumb scrubs across her pebbled nipple through the fabric.

I’m losing control.

I pull back a little, embarrassed that I’m reacting so freely. “I’m so sorry. There’s still so much I want to know about you before I—”

She leans into me, harder than before, kissing my lips, massaging my tongue. Her hands move from my chest, to my face, to my shoulders, and back again as her hips dip and grind against me.

“You’re going to have to stop, little one, or I’m going to lose it.”

She pulls away and our eyes meet.“Little one?”

“Yeah, sorry. That’s creepy. You’re little and it spilled out.”

“I’m most definitely not little.”

“You are to me. You’re little, you’re cute, and the way you’re kissing me is going to stop my heart. So… you should stop.”

“I’m sorry.” She stands to lift off my lap, but I grip her hips and pull her back into place.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“I thought you wanted me to stop?” Her tone is soft as she smirks.

“I thought I did too,” I kiss her again, biting her bottom lip gently as I make my way to the lobe of her ear, “but you feel really good on my lap.” My words come out in a growl, and I wonder if I’m going too far.

A soft sigh leaves her throat and she grinds into me, moving her hips back and forth along the length of my hard cock currently sidelining in my jeans.

Fuck.

“I want you to touch me, Gunner. Touch me everywhere.” She whines and pleads the words as though she’s desperate for me.

This is the part where I’m supposed to use my brain. Where self-control and the wisdom to know right from wrong comes in to focus. Or at the very least, know why she’s here before I go making a decision I can’t take back.

I guess that’s why hormones exist. They’re meant to cloud your judgment and fuck… I’m pretty sure my judgment can’t see its hand in front of its face right now.

Her fingers scrub through my hair, knocking my hat to the floor. “Why do I need you so bad? I barely know you.”

My lips press to hers and it’s a ravaging mess. I’m unable to get close enough, unable to feel her against me to the depth I need to feel.

Her hands wind around the back of my neck and I slide my hand down the side of her frame, up her thigh, and beneath my flannel. She’s not wearing panties.

She’s not wearing fucking panties.

You’re a forty-six-year-old man, Gunner. You should know better than to touch her. You should stop this. You should fucking stop this!

My heart slams against my chest and my cock aches to escape. A direct disregard of everything my brain is telling it to do. I have a feeling I know who’s going to win.

I slide my hand between her thick thighs and stroke my fingers across her swollen, soaking slit. There’s barely any space between us but I find a pocket big enough to thrust my fingers in and out of her tight little core.

Fucking hell. What am I doing?

Her hair spills backward, and she moans deeply through her belly. “God, yes. Don’t stop!”

If frozen peas and vapor rub are the cure for anxiety, Millie is the prevention.