Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

She rode him in slow, deep circles.

Each rotation pressed her clit against the base of him. Each downward stroke took him to the hilt. She knew exactly when to lift, when to bear down, when to speed up. Her thighs worked with the ease of someone who could have done this for hours—and might.

The sound of their bodies was obscene.

Wet and rhythmic, syncing with the creek outside until it was impossible to tell where one sound ended and the other began.

She leaned back, changing the angle. Her hands found his knees. Her breasts lifted toward the ceiling. The new angle made him groan, made his hips raise to meet her.

"You feel so good," she said. Not as flattery. As observation. "So deep like this."

"Dani—"

"Don’t come yet."

Her eyes met his.

"The night is long," she said. "I want to try something."

Before he could ask, she lifted off him. Not fully. Just enough to shift her weight.

Then she turned around.

The reverse cowgirl should have been awkward in a bed this narrow. It wasn’t. It was the opposite—the compactness of the cabin meant that when she backed onto him again, facing the wall, he could see the entire line of her spine, the flex of her shoulder blades, the way her ass settled onto his hips with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to seat herself.

She reached back and braced her hands on his thighs.

Started riding him in reverse.

The sight of her—the dark skin of her back, the sweat already starting to sheen along the notches of her spine, the way she took him—made his jaw clench.

She worked that position like she’d invented it.

The pace changed. Faster now. Her ass slapping against his hips in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the creek anymore. The bed creaked with each downstroke, and she didn’t soften for it.

"You like watching," she said, without turning around. "I can feel how hard you are."

"Yes."

"Touch yourself," she said. "While I ride you."

He didn’t.

"Touch me," he said.

One of her hands left his thigh. Came back between her own legs. Her fingers found her clit, and she started circling it in time with her own rhythm, short tight strokes that made her spine arch and her pace falter for just one stroke before she caught it again.

"I’m close," she said. "Don’t stop. Don’t move. Just let me—"

He didn’t move.

He let her take it.

Her rhythm broke into something more frantic, less controlled—she ground down hard onto him, her fingers working faster, her breath catching, and then her whole body went rigid and she let out a sound that was half his name, half nothing like language.

She came around him in a series of long, rolling contractions.

The feeling of it—the squeezing, the pulsing, the way she shuddered and bore down—almost undid him.

But she wasn’t finished.

She climbed off him before the aftershocks had fully stopped.

Turned.

Came back up his body.

Laid herself on top of him, chest to chest, her lips finding his mouth in a hard, breathless kiss.

"Now you," she said.

Her mouth moved to his jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone.

"I want you on top," she said. "I want those lean hips putting in work."

He rolled her beneath him without breaking the kiss.

The movement was fluid, automatic, necessary. Her legs came up around his waist, ankles hooking at the small of his back, and for a moment he just looked down at her—the wide dark eyes, the freckles nearly visible in the low light, the smile that had nothing soft in it.

"What was that you said about athletic people?" he asked.

Her smile widened.

"Let’s find out what you can do."

He entered her in one long, deliberate stroke.

Then put his hips to work.

--

The pace began hard.

He drove into her with the specific efficiency she’d observed on the trail—none of the wasted motion, all of the force. The bed hit the wall on the third stroke and neither of them stopped. Her hands found his shoulder blades, fingers digging into muscle. Her ankles unlocked and climbed higher, until her calves were draped over his shoulders.

The new depth pulled a ragged sound from somewhere in her chest.

"Thank you, God," she panted. "That’s— yes. Right there."

He shifted his weight onto one arm. His free hand found the back of her thigh, pressing it back toward her chest. Opening her wider. The angle changed again and she gasped, a sharp, surprised inhale that had nothing to do with pain.

"Do that again," she said.

He did.

She was still slick from her first orgasm, and the sound of him moving in her had gone from rhythmic to sloppy, the wet evidence of them spreading between their bodies.

Her heel pressed against his spine.

"I’m not fragile," she said, reading something in the way he held back. "I told you. In the moment."

He stopped holding back.

The next thrust was deeper than any before it. Her head tipped back. A long, guttural moan left her mouth, and he watched the column of her throat, the pulse working there, while he drove into her with a rhythm that was all economy and force.

Her breathing shifted. Short, punched-out sounds. Her inner walls tightened around him again.

"Don’t stop," she said, her voice cracking. "Don’t you fucking stop."

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Her second orgasm snapped through her with violence. Her whole body clenched—thighs, stomach, the hand that flew to the headboard to brace against the force of it. She cried out, a sound that was too loud for the narrow cabin, too big for the quiet hill country night.

And the feeling of it—the convulsive grip of her, the clench and release around him—sent him over the edge.

His own release hit like a cliff into deep water.

Everything went tight and silent for one long, suspended second. The creek. The bed. Her breath. All of it held.

Then he fell.

He caught himself on his forearms before his weight collapsed on her. His whole body shook through the end of it, hips still moving in short, uncontrolled thrusts, riding the feeling down through its last pulses.

He stayed inside her.

Neither of them moved.

The creek came back first. Then the bed’s creak settling. Then the sound of their breathing, loud and ragged and slowly finding the same rhythm.

She reached up and touched his face. Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw.

Her other hand slid down his back, feeling the sweat there, the heat of him.

Then, quietly, in the dark, she laughed.

Not a laugh at him. A laugh of pure recognition. Like the terrain had been everything it had promised.

"Okay," she said, still breathing hard. "I’ll sleep now."