Drilled Read online

  Drilled

  Jasinda Wilder

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Chapter 1

  I open my eyes, groggy and disoriented. Where am I?

  Oh, right. It’s all coming back to me. I’m at the Marriot, just off the freeway, some three or four miles from the Waverley jobsite Franco is working on.

  As I come fully awake, the next thing I realize is that I’m sore, if you know what I mean. It’s not as if I’ve never woken up with a sore hoo-ha before—I do have some experience with this. Actually, it’s happened quite a few times, and all of them were memorable to say the least. But this time? Holy Moses, I’m so sore. I feel like I’ve been fucked into next week.

  Ah, yes…Franco…

  I roll over, tugging the sheet up past my shoulder, and slide up against him from behind. He’s facing away, breathing evenly and slowly. I don’t think he’s totally asleep, though—I don’t know him well enough to be able to say, one way or the other, considering we only met the previous evening, and have spent the intervening ten hours having sex, calling room service, and sleeping. But I’m fairly certain I can tell—he snores ever so slightly, a subtle rasp of his breath in his throat on the inhale, and a gentle huff on the exhale.

  Pretending, perhaps.

  I’m all too familiar with pretending to be asleep, so I recognize the signs. I normally fake being asleep to let the guy I just hooked up with leave first. I have a feeling that’s the same game Franco is playing right now.

  Joke’s on him, though, because I have another plan: one more round of epic sex for the road.

  I snuggle up behind him, rest my cheek between his shoulder blades, nudging my core up against his taut, firm butt. God, that ass is a work of art. I feel the hard globes against my thighs and pubis, his warm skin, and his faint dusting of body hair.

  Casually, as if by accident, I toss my arm over his waist, letting it rest for a moment. And then, less accidentally, I place my hand on his body and find his abs, grooved and ridged and rock hard. Gently, I slide my palm against his skin, carving a path downward. His breathing doesn’t catch, but his core tenses. I smile against his back, knowing for certain he’s awake. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give anything else away. I run my hand down his thigh and back up, and then over his abs repeating the pattern, daring to go lower and lower on each pass over his stomach. The lower my hand travels, the harder his abs tense.

  Finally, I clasp his erection in my fist and stroke it gently. Even though I’ve had this incredible organ inside me four—no, five—times already, I’m still marveling at its size and perfection. It’s just glorious and breathtaking. Eight inches long if it’s an inch, thick as a goddamn kielbasa sausage, and curved just enough toward the tip to hit my G-spot when he drives in at a certain angle…and believe me, he found that angle last night. And used it to scream-inducing effect. In fact, we got a call from the front desk at two-nineteen in the morning asking us to please quiet down, as there had been several noise complaints from other guests. Meaning, me. I’m loud—I’m a screamer and, when I’m coming hard enough I can’t stop myself from shrieking like a banshee, and last night, Franco made damn sure I couldn’t help myself.

  Even my throat is sore from screaming.

  And despite my sore throat and aching lady bits, I still want more. Five rounds of epic sex in less than twelve hours, at age forty, and I’m still ready for more from this guy.

  I texted my girlfriend Imogen earlier last evening to tell her that Franco has a magical dick and, not only that, I’m scared because he makes me feel things. And I hate feeling things—at least, things other than orgasms.

  Franco is still pretending to be sleeping, even as I slowly caress his shaft with one hand. The soft flesh stutters against my palm and fingers, all those inches sliding and gliding through my fist. I rub my thumb against the tip, stroke down to the base and back up, rub the tip—repeating until I feel pre-cum smearing against my thumb. Yet still, he remains motionless, breathing evenly.

  Damn, he’s good.

  I move my hand lower, cupping his balls, using my middle finger to massage his taint, and then return my touch to his iron-hard, yet velvet-soft erection. This time, I increase the speed of my strokes incrementally, sliding my fist up and down faster and faster in gradual degrees, until I’m pumping him rapidly.

  He holds out admirably, remaining still until the last possible moment. And then, at last, he snarls wordlessly and knocks my hand away, rolling up onto his knees. Levered upright over me, he stares down at me with pale, icy-blue eyes flickering like twin flames. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his abs tense, muscles bunched, fists clenched.

  “Dammit, woman,” he breathes. “I was trying to sleep.”

  I quirk an eyebrow up at him. “Bullshit. You were awake.”

  He just stares balefully down at me. “Yeah—when you started messing with me.”

  I reach for him, grasp him in my fist, and lazily stroke him. “Like you’re complaining.”

  He glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the hotel bed. “Coulda waited until at least six in the damn morning.”

  I shrug. “Eh, I wake up at five thirty or so every morning without an alarm clock, just out of long habit. I couldn’t sleep in past six even if I wanted to.”

  His eyes watch the movement of my hand as I slowly caress his length. “You want me to come everywhere, Audra? Because that’s what’s about to happen if you don’t quit for a damn second.”

  I shrug again, the movement causing my admittedly overly generous breasts to sway. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that. Could be kinda hot.”

  “Maybe, but it wouldn’t get you an orgasm.”

  “You have ten fingers and a tongue, don’t you?” I reply, not stopping. “You could use those.”

  He narrows his eyes as he looks at me. “I could.” He pulls out of my reach, pinions my wrists in one of his hands, and then leans over me, stretching across me to snag a condom from off the table beside the bed. “But I have other ideas.”

  I fake a confused expression. “You’ve already fucked me missionary, bent over the bed, doggy style, and with my feet on your shoulders. What’s next, some weird Kama Sutra position?”

  He doesn’t respond, just keeps hold of my hands with one of his, rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth, spits the strip of wrapper aside, holds the wrapper in his teeth and withdraws the ring, then rolls it onto himself in a single, smooth motion.

  “You’re good at that,” I remark, grinning up at him.

  “Lots of practice.” He doesn’t grin back.

  “Ooh, so serious,” I say, in a mocking tone of voice. “You know, I can put that on you with just my mouth.”

  He pauses, staring down at me in surprise and skepticism. “Really?”

  I nod, struggling to break his hold on my wrists. “Oh yeah. I’m really good with my mouth.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

  I laugh. “Sorry, I was too busy screaming.”

  He smirks. “Never made a girl scream so loud that we got a call from the front desk. I’ve had neighbors pound on the walls, but never got an actual noise complaint before.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the most inhibited lady you’ll ever meet.” I struggle harder to break free. “Now let me go, dammit.”


  He’s back to super serious Franco again. “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me go and I’ll show you what I can do with my mouth.”

  “You know you’re gonna show me anyway.” He shoves my hands up over my head and bends over me to nuzzle my breasts. “I told you, I have different plans.”

  “Like what?”

  He reaches between my thighs, two fingers circling my clit, still pinning my hands over my head. He watches me as he touches me, bringing me expertly and swiftly to the cusp of climax in a matter of a minute or two, and then pushing me inexorably over the edge—this first one doesn’t make me scream, just moan and whimper and thrash underneath him, but he doesn’t stop even when I’ve finished my orgasm—instead, he just keeps touching, this time slipping those same two fingers inside me, curling them and stiffening them, using them to massage deep inside me, slicking them in and out, in and out, faster and faster, always striking that one particular little spot just right, again and again, tirelessly. This one isn’t as fast to overtake me, but when it does start to rise within me, it’s a hot, expanding balloon of pressure and frenzied energy and desperation, a deep, throbbing vaginal orgasm pulsing through me in a tidal wave of ramping intensity.

  Again, he doesn’t tease or draw it out, just throws me mercilessly over the edge—and this time I do scream, just a small breathless shriek as I’m racked by the waves of climax. My whole body is tensed and I thrash, kicking and bucking, but he has an iron grip on my wrists, and just lets me thrash and shriek underneath him, fingers driving in and out of me through the entirety of the climax.

  Next, he transfers his grip on my wrists to his other hand, and I feel my sticky juices dripping down his fingers onto my wrists. Using his now-free hand, he slides two fingers inside me and presses a thumb against my clit.

  I’m gasping, shaking, limp, and I rock my head side to side, no longer struggling. “Oh god, Franco, not another one. Jesus. I’ll die.”

  He just snorts derisively. “You came at least half a dozen times last night. You’ll survive a few more.”

  His combined touch, in me and on me, is almost too much, stimulating my now-hypersensitive flesh. I groan raggedly, bucking under him as he guides me unerringly to the cusp of yet another climax.

  “You brute,” I mumble, “you’re trying to kill me. Death by orgasm.”

  “There are worse ways to go.”

  “I’ll get you back for this,” I vow, my eyes on his as I hold back the writhing pressure of the most powerful orgasm yet. “I’ll tie to you a bed and have my way with you until you beg me to stop.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” he says with a smirk. “But I’m forty-five, sweetheart. My refractory period isn’t what it used to be, so that may take a while.”

  “You—oh, oh-Jesus-have-mercy—you have the refractory period of a twenty-one-year-old porn star, so don’t play coy with me, Franco.” I was in the grip of it, now, still trying to hold it off, draw it out, get the most out of it.

  He’s relentless, not allowing me to hold out for very long. This time, though, he stops when I’m riding the edge, just when I feel a scream starting to bubble up inside me. He doesn’t stop for long—just slips his hand away from me, lets go of my wrists, grabs me by the waist and tosses me onto my belly in a single effortless flip. He immediately pounces, snatching my wrists up again and pinning them behind my back with one hand. He nudges his knees between my thighs, forcing me to spread apart, and then his other hand dives between my belly and the bed and tugs my hips upward in a quick jerk, leaving my the upper half of my body pressed down against the mattress and my ass in the air.

  Seconds have passed since his fingers were pushing me to the edge of climax, and in those seconds I’ve drawn away from the cusp, but now I’m right there again as he thrusts in, his massive organ splitting me apart with a sudden stinging ache that sears a breathless gasp out of me. His hips slap against my ass as he pounds deep, and I’m filled and throbbing, the climax ramping up inside me hotter and harder and huger than anything yet. I’m helpless, my breasts smashed against the bed, my butt in the air, my hands pinned behind my back in a firm, unbreakable, yet gentle grip.

  A scream rips through me as he drives against me, suddenly hard and fast, each stroke striking the tip of his cock against my G-spot until I’m wild with the furious climax shattering me like a porcelain vase dropped on a marble floor.

  He doesn’t slow as I come, but his thrusts aren’t as hard, just fast and deep, his hips smacking against me loudly.

  I can’t stop myself from screaming, each stroke sending further piercing pangs of pleasure spearing through me, driving me past orgasm into something else unquantifiable as a mere climax.

  God, oh god—this is why I’ve spent the last many hours in bed with this man, because it’s like this every time.

  Shit, shit, shit—just when I think he’s nearly done, he’s going to come and it’ll be over, just when I think it’s impossible for me to come anymore, he pauses in his thrusting and lets go of my wrists. He lifts me upright so we’re both up on our knees, him behind me, still inside me, our breathing matched in ragged synch. He guides one of my hands down to where we’re joined, leaving the other one free.

  “Touch yourself,” he orders. “One more.”

  “I can’t—I can’t.”

  “I need to feel you come once more, with me.” He powers up into me, his breath and voice in my ear, hot and intense. “Touch yourself, Audra.”

  I wrench my hand free of his grip and reach up to tangle both my hands in his long, loose blond hair, clutching at it behind his head, arching my back as I lift up and sink down on him. I hope he doesn’t think orders will work on me. I’ll let him toss me around, because that’s hot AF, but I don’t do orders. He’ll learn.

  Or, maybe he won’t, because this is probably it for us.

  I don’t need to touch myself, anyway. Just him, like this, is enough. Which is crazy, because it usually takes a hell of a lot more than that to make me come, especially when I’m on my fourth in less than twenty minutes.

  Oh, holy fuck, here we go…

  He grasps at my breasts with both hands, using them as leverage to drive into me, holding them in place, rough palms scratching my hardened nipples. Harder, harder, his breath in my ear, his grunts ragged and increasingly breathless.

  I rise and fall, reaching up and back to hold on to the back of his head, feeling him slide through me, splitting me apart and slamming into me loudly, wetly. A scream escapes from me as the first tremors of my next climax shear through me, this one nuclear in comparison to the ones that preceded it. He’s tireless, a feral tiger, snarling in my ear, and my ability to hold to the rise-and-fall rhythm of our union stutters, and his grip on my breasts is all that holds me upright.

  Finally, I feel him lose the rhythm as well; here comes my favorite part.

  I feel his head move, dipping down, and then his teeth sink sudden and hard into my shoulder, and he growls past a mouthful of my flesh, his hands gripping my boobs with an almost painful force, his hips driving madly, wildly, his shaft singing through my spasming channel, my scream shivering the room as I come in unison with him—something I’ve only had happen one other time in my life.

  His yell is wordless, a strained, primal roar as he slams into me once—twice—three times—harder for one last drive, and then he goes limp, his grip on my tits releasing to wrap his arms around me, face buried in my neck, my hands knotted in his hair so tightly I’m not sure I’ll be able to loosen them.

  We’re both gasping brokenly, the only sound in the room.

  Something wiggles and niggles and nips inside me—not a physical sensation, but an emotional one. Something odd and frightening centered on the way his arms feel wrapped around me like this—suspiciously hug-like. An embrace.

  He lets go abruptly, and I’m so limp I fall bonelessly forward, moaning as I flop onto the mattress. Franco hits the bed beside me, and we lie there, breathing into the silence.r />
  After a long while, he speaks. “You want the bathroom first?”

  I moan again, and then find my voice. “Yeah—yes. I’ll take the bathroom first. Gotta pee.”

  He rolls to his back, tossing an arm over his eyes. “Okay, cool. Go for it.” He reaches out with his other hand and squeezes my ass cheek once, and then pats it.

  I snicker as I roll away. “What was that?”

  “What?” he asks, not removing his arm from his eyes.

  “The thing with my butt?”

  He just chuckles. “Eh…I don’t know. I just appreciate your ass.” His voice drops an octave deeper and takes on a tone that indicates he’s quoting something. “‘I don't normally do this, but I feel compelled to tell you something. You have…the most breathtaking…hiney. I mean it is good. I wanna be friends with it.’”

  I cackle as I traipse to the bathroom. “First time anyone’s quoted Anchorman to me post-coitus.” I pause in the doorway. “But thank you. And…I think you already are friends with it.”

  He lifts his arm up slightly to smirk sidelong at me. “Better friends, then. Much, much better.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll let you make better friends with my ass after I take a quick shower.”

  He lays his arm back down. “Take your time. I need to recover anyway.”

  “Don’t tell me I’ve worn you out, already, old man.”

  He just flips me off. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

  I laugh again and close the door. I turn the shower on and pee as the water heats, and then spend several wonderful minutes luxuriating in the hot water, stretching under the spray and enjoying the deep, delicious ache of a well-sated hoo-ha.

  Once I’m clean, I step out, dry off, twist a towel around my hair and wrap another around my body, and then yank the door open as I wipe steam off the mirror.