“Tell me, Eden. I need to hear you say it. How much you want this too.”
I dug my fingers into his neck. “I want you to fuck me. So fucking badly.”
“Fuck.” He reached down and stroked his cock once, twice, his eyes all over my body.
Then, he lined himself up, stared into my eyes, and pushed inside me. And holy fuysbdkgsdfywerbl.
He filled me inch by inch, so thick, so slow, the stretch unbearable and perfect and too much and not enough. My nails dug into his shoulders as I clung to him, struggling to breathe around the feeling of him sinking so deep it felt like he was moulding my body to fit him.
Jake’s muscles locked tight as he held still once he was all the way in. Like he was tensing against a pressure rising too fast. “Jesus, Eden.” His voice was unsteady in the most obscene way. “You take me like you were fuckin’ made for me.”
He pulled out, almost all the way, his forearms flexed, then he sank back in. “Fuuuck.” His lips caught mine, greedy, unfiltered. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”
His pace turned relentless, every thrust sending sparks up my spine. I met it, matched it, and the room filled with the kinds of sounds I’d never heard during sex. Or maybe I’d just had such bad sex that I hadn’t paid much attention. Either way, there was no way I could ever go back to shitty sex again.
Jake’s indecent sounds.
My moans.
The slap of skin against skin.
Faster.
Harder.
Deeper.
Jake’s control slipping and the pleasure reaching new highs.
His name leaving my lips.
My name falling from his in amongst other dirty words no man had ever said to me.
I orgasmed right after he told me he wished he was fucking me raw so that I’d still be full of his cum tomorrow. (Sidenote: I’m going to have to spend time analysing the wrongness of being so turned on by this. I may need a spreadsheet.)
Jake came after me, with one last hard thrust that almost slammed my head through the headboard of the bed. (Sidenote: the fact this also turned me on in new ways may also require analysis. I really don’t think he can call me sweet or good anymore. Good girls wouldn’t be hoping and praying for him to do that again and again, and maybe a little harder next time, right?)
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a welcome pressure. We lay together, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, the silence broken only by the beat of our hearts against each other. Then he rolled onto his back, pulled me close, and pressed a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin.
“Don’t even think about falling asleep yet, darlin’,” he murmured. “I need to hear you scream my name again.”
Later, much later, after more orgasms and long, lazy conversations between kisses—talking about everything and nothing, tangled in my sheets and each other—I realised something that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure: I was falling for him. Hard. Fast. Utterly.
Current status: Thoroughly claimed, completely ruined for all other men, and contemplating if it’s possible to die from satisfaction. Also wondering how I’m going to explain the marks on my neck tomorrow.
P.S. Is it possible to be addicted to someone’s touch? Asking for science, of course, not for a friend that is me.
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THE MORNING AFTER PROTOCOL (OR: WHY JAKE MAKES COFFEE DANGEROUS)
Posted by Anonymous at 9:49 a.m.
April 1
Things they don’t tell you about waking up after a night of sex with a biker:
