“Gonna fuck you so deep your body forgets anyone else’s name. So you’ll dream of this cock for the rest of your life.”
I thrust harder, deeper, sweat dripping from my brow to her spine. The glove is soaked with spit now. Her mascara’s smeared. Her moans are pure chaos.
And when she clenches around me, spasming, sobbing, I nearly black out, my rhythm going savage, erratic.
I pull out just long enough to flip her over and press her thighs up. I rip the glove from her mouth.
She gasps like she’s been drowning, lips red, jaw trembling, mascara-streaked and wild-eyed.
I want to see her wrecked face when I come. Want to watch her fall apart all over again, dripping and open and mine.
“I want you to come again. With me,” I rasp, my thumb dragging over the pulse at her throat.
Her lips tremble, spit-slick and quivering from the glove. “Then fuck me, Jett.”
I do.
Hard. Deep. Every thrust aimed like a weapon, fucking the shape of my name into her.
Her body bows with every impact, legs locked around my waist, hands clawing at my shoulders.
The bed slams into the wall. The headboard cracks. My rhythm turns savage, unrelenting, but I can’t take my eyes off her. Not even when she screams my name. Over and over, like a litany.
Her mouth drops open. She tries to say something, maybe beg, maybe praise, maybe nothing at all, but all that escapes is a broken sob.
Fuck.
“You see me?” I ask, breath ragged. “You want this. Me.”
Her cunt clenches like it’s trying to pull me inside her ribcage and keep me.
I catch her chin, force it steady. “Answer me,” I growl.
Her whole body’s shaking, crying, wrecked, but she doesn’t look away. “Yes.”
“You’re mine,” I whisper against her lips, forehead to hers. “Say it.”
“Yours.”
I slam deep and stay there, locked tight as I come with a snarl, spilling into her while my hand fists in her hair and my teeth scrape the edge of her jaw. I kiss her like I’m dying. I want to choke on her breath just to keep it in my lungs.
And I don’t say it, but it’s there.
In the way I hold her through it.
In the way I don’t look away either.
I’m already hers.
I should let her go.
That’s what a better man would do. Get the hell up, walk away, leave her the space to realize this was a mistake.
But I don’t.
Can’t.
She’s laid out across the bed, hair tangled, thighs twitching, my glove spit-wet and discarded on the sheets beside her. I watch her chest rise and fall in shuddering, aftershock breaths. My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to touch, to fix, but I don’t know how to do that without fucking it up worse.
