I keep moving through it. Slow now. Shallow. Grinding into her until I’m spent and she’s shaking again, her orgasm a broken thing under mine. One more wave of overstimulated bliss while she sobs and clutches at me.
I kiss her gagged mouth.
“You’re mine now,” I whisper. “You understand? Boundaries are gone.”
She nods, tears streaming, eyes locked on mine. Her chest rises in little gasps behind the gag, flushed and soaked, legs sprawled open beneath me, body trembling with overstimulation and everything I just did to her.
Everything I wanted to do.
Fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pull out carefully, trying not to hurt her. Her breath hitches, tired, raw. I tug my shirt off and press it between her legs to soak up the mess, and she flinches from the contact.
Shit.
“Easy,” I say. My voice is unsteady. I stroke her hair off her face, my hand too big and too gentle for what I just did. “So good, pet.”
She makes a soft noise behind the gag, something small and grateful.
I reach around her head and unbuckle it.
Her jaw slackens. Lips wet, bitten. She doesn’t speak, just breathes, slow and heavy, like even that is too much.
I sit back on my heels and stare at her like I’ve never seen her before.
Flushed. Marked. Collar still tight around her throat.
She looks like a fever dream. Something I summoned. A crime scene I want to revisit. And I hate how much I want to.
I lift her carefully. She melts into my arms. Her head finds the crook of my neck, and I swear she purrs when I wrap the blanket from the couch around her.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself. “I shouldn’t have.”
Her fingers touch my chest. Light. Forgiving.
“You wanted it,” I say. “But I shouldn’t have wanted it so much.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just exhales slow and sweet against my skin.
I lay her back down gently, stroke her hair, press kisses to her temple, her cheek, the faint bruise at her jaw. Tender. Like penance.
“You need anything?” I whisper.
She hums.
“You okay?”
Another hum. A nod. She tugs weakly at the collar, not to take it off, she wants me to know she knows it’s still there.
My stomach twists. I press my forehead to hers. “Let me take care of you until my next appointment. I blocked a few hours for us today.”
She smiles, small, broken, radiant. “I’m yours,” she whispers, hoarse.
That wrecks me worse than the orgasm did.
She’s boneless on the couch, barely blinking, wrapped in the blanket I tucked around her. Her thighs are trembling, and she hasn’t spoken since she whispered I’m yours like it didn’t detonate something in my chest.
