I slid down on him inch by inch. The stretch made me moan low in my throat. He was thick, and the deeper I took him, the more my walls fluttered around the invasion.
“Fuuuck, Jordin,” he groaned, head falling back, neck taut.
His hands hovered at his sides like he was begging for permission to grab me, but he didn’t. Obedient.
“Don’t move,” I said again, pressing both palms flat against his chest. “You don’t get to fuck me yet. You just get to feel me.”
His abs tensed under my fingers. I rocked slowly, deliberately, letting him feel every wet squeeze.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he damn near whimpered.
“I’m making you better,” I breathed, my hips circling. “You’re gonna learn how to wait. How to control yourself. When I do let you move, you’re gonna make me feel every inch of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he rasped, eyes wild with need.
I started riding him—slow and deep. I wanted him wrecked. His hands trembled at his sides from holding back, and every time I lifted off and slid back down, I could feel his control slipping.
The sounds of our bodies meeting were wet and obscene. The squelch of my pussy, the quiet slap of skin, the way I moaned on purpose—low and breathy—just to torture him. I wanted to wreck him so he couldn’t be good for anyone else.
When I leaned back and rocked harder, chasing my orgasm, his hands flew to my hips. I almost stopped him.
“Now,” I whispered. “Now, you can fuck me.”
He flipped me onto my back, sat up, and slammed into me like the world was ending and I was the last thing he wanted to feel. Skin on skin. Slap and slide. My nails dug into his shoulders. My mouth opened but no sound came out—just breath, just need.
“Shit, Jordin,” he groaned, his weight pushing me into the mattress. His hips slammed into me, rough and sure. “You feel so fucking good.”
He held me still and pounded into me with filthy precision. I could barely speak, only gasp and moan, nails clawing at his shoulders.
“Harder. Don’t stop,” I panted.
“Yes, ma’am,” he growled, snapping his hips, fucking me like he meant it now. His control had shattered. He was feral. And I loved it.
“I’m gonna cum,” he warned, breath choppy.
“I know,” I moaned. I was cumming too. My whole body tensed around him. He fucked me through it, rough and grateful, his mouth near my throat like maybe he was thinking about biting down, about marking me for real.
His whole body stiffened, hands gripping me like he needed to anchor himself, and I felt him spilling inside me, warm and deep.
We collapsed together.
He rolled off me onto the soft mattress. My heart was pounding, my thighs still twitching. He pulled me into his chest, his breath warm against my shoulder.
“You keep doing that,” I joked, “we’re gonna end up going half on a baby.”
“Won’t happen,” he said before I could even laugh. “I had a vasectomy.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just fucked me into oblivion and whispered a baby into the sheets.
“Oh.” It slipped out small. Flat.
I don’t think he heard me. His breathing had already slowed.
I stared at the ceiling, suddenly feeling empty in a way I couldn’t put words to.
I needed to slow down with Ciarán. Pull back before I got caught up.
He wanted something different. I wanted a family.
