Free Just Let Go… by Kathleen O'Reilly

side of her skirt. He dreaded the next move, even as every inch of him was panting to see it. The skirt slipped a paltry few inches, not lose enough to fall free. Austen smiled.
    She twirled on her heels, showing him her back. Novice, he thought.
    Until she bent low from the waist, and eased the skirt down her legs, exposing a tiny black thong and a whole lot of temptation. Thankfully she was missing the heart attack on his face.
    But by gawd, he would die a happy, happy man. Her ass—two perfectly sculpted mounds of muscle and sin. And this from a breast man. His cock tightened, ached, threatened humiliation. Still bent over, she grabbed the pole and rocked her delectable ass, hips swaying back and forth, and he could see her then riding him, just like he’d seen a thousand times in his mind. Unable to restrain himself, Austen moaned.
    The woman heard.
    With one graceful grind, she rose upright, hair tousled, lips moist and a body that begged to be ridden.
    Strip her down, ride her hard.
    The words were his, but the harsh voice in his head belonged to Frank Hart.
    When she moved toward him, he didn’t back away. Instead, he tweaked a rosy tip with an arrogant smile on his face.
    She had no idea who he really was, what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he’d run from. Always running. There were hard lessons to be learned, but this woman needed to know, she needed to understand, she needed to forget.
    When her hands shifted to his shirt, Austen stilled. Quick and efficient, she yanked the shirt from his shoulders. The tips of her nipples brushed against his bare skin like fire. Calmly he stood, cool and collected, in spite of the blood-pumping urge to touch. Waiting, waiting.
    Her hands moved to his fly, toying there, playing there, before sliding down the zip.
    His cock leaped into her hand, a dog to its master, but this wasn’t about sex anymore. This was about the fundamentals of his nature.
    The waiting was done.
    Callously he caught her hips in his hands and turned her to face the pole. He rubbed the slit between her legs, stroking the wet, swollen flesh. Her tail tilted higher. From the back, she was no different from any other piece of ass. Nothing more.
    “No more playing, sugar,” he said, shoving his jeans to his knees, sheathing his cock. He slid into her warm and willing passage, ignoring the pain in his head. This wasn’t real, he told himself, only the fantasies of a thousand nights overlapping in his mind.
    She rocked back against him, and he heard her pleasured gasp.
    Strip her down, ride her hard.
    His cock slid in and out, only the night watching two dogs at rutting season. She looked back at him, her face taught with confused pleasure. Austen closed his eyes and shoved harder, feeling her body buck under the overwhelming pressure. He would have broken under the pressure long ago. Not her.
    She’s not what you think. She’s a tramp, a whore, and she’s yours. All yours. They’re all yours if you play the game.
    “Is this…what you…wanted?” she managed, the words punctuated by the sharp slap of his thrust.
    “It’s what every man wants, sugar… Nothing else.” His fingers gripped tighter on her hips, marking her skin, wishing she weren’t so delicate. There’d never been bruises on her in his mind.
    The ghosts of Parson’s Green whispered around them, laughing like fools. Her back straightened, arching against him, pressing her skin to his sweat-soaked chest. His hips froze at the full-body contact, the clean silk of her hair caressing his face. For a second, he breathed in the virgin’s scent of her, the essence of her. “Why did you leave?” she whispered. The words were loud in his head, breaking into his moment. She didn’t need him, she was using him, just like he was using her, but the question hammered at him. He knew how to get rid of dreams. Destroy them.
    Hell bent, he anchored her hips to his cock, pushed harder and harder, until she fell forward, her hands locking to