I’m gasping. He’s grunting. The air between us slick with heat and noise—and from somewhere outside the door, Boomerang’s meow cuts through it all, high-pitched and distressed.
Like he thinks I’m being hurt.
And maybe I am.
Just not in any way I’d ever ask to stop.
He drops me to my feet with no warning, no time to steady myself. Before I can blink, he spins me, fast and decisive, like he’s reclaiming control of every breath I’ve stolen.
One hand finds my hair, fisting it tight. The other trails lower, staking claim before thought can catch up to sensation, he spreads my ass cheek.
The wall’s cool against my front. His body’s fire against my back.
“That sweet little cunt is mine now, Nell.”
His words rake across my skin like hot coal—slow, searing, impossible to ignore. Goosebumps ripple in their wake, rising against the sheen of sweat clinging to my body. Every syllable brands me, igniting something primal.
“Shut up and fuck me Stalker boy,” I pant, hooking my arm around his neck, grinding into him like I own him.
Because right now I do.
He bites down on my neck, sliding back inside me with ease now he’s moulded my body to accept him.
He’s punishing with his thrusts now, forcing me against the wall with each one. But he keeps my head pinned to his chest by my hair, claiming every inch of skin he can reach—sucking, biting, branding.
His other hand reaches down, exploring the junction between my thighs, rolling my clit until my knees give way. But he doesn’t let me fall.
His arms lock around me, anchoring me exactly where he wants me. There’s no room to escape, no space for thought. Only heat. Onlyhim.
His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s absolute—commanding my body with nothing more than presence.
“Are you going to cum for me?” He’s challenging me, but his fingers are teasing, building rhythm and then stopping again in some sort of twisted game.
“Mmm hmm,” I moan, my body tensing in response to his words.
“Go on then trouble, show me how good you can be.”
Christ, he could tell me to jump off a cliff at this point and I’d do it.
My body is in no mood to fight, and when he rolls my swollen clit through his fingers again, railing into me so hard I see stars, I give in.
In one wild, hot rush I brace against the bone rattling orgasm that ripples through me entirely. My channel grips him like a vice, demanding him to stay exactly where he is, and for a moment, I forget everything.
My head tips back against him, unbidden, spine arching as if summoned. His grip loosens from my hair—only to glide lower, his hand wrapping around my throat with measured control.
Thumb and fingers spread, guiding my neck into a slow, deliberate stretch—exposing me.
Claiming me.
Every nerve ignites under his touch, but it’s not just possession, it’s precision. He doesn’t force. He positions.
When he drives into me again, after my body releases him from its grip, he shows no mercy. No care that I’ve just exploded all over his cock. He’s driving his point home—I’m his now.
I can feel it in the way he moves—how close he is, chasing his release with every beat.
But my body’s already winding itself tight again.
His fingers glide with precision to my breast, clamping down on my nipple until it stings. It stings—but in that addictive, toe-curling way that blurs the lines between pain and pleasure, making me crave more even as I flinch.
