God, she’s so wet.
My hips move of their own volition, a single, shallow thrust against her slick heat. It’s not for entry, not yet. It’s to feel her essence soaking my skin, to mark myself with her. It takes all but three thrusts before I’m covered, and she’s wiggling.
Holding her folded with one arm, I use my other hand to guide myself. My fingers, the very ones that just played her body like a fine instrument, are unsteady. I ignore it, focusing on the blunt pressure of my tip against her entrance.
She gives way not with resistance, but with a sigh, a warm, silken welcome that is her being ready to take me completely.
I press in ever so slowly. Watching her face, I feed her inch by torturous inch. Her lips part, her eyes roll back, and a low moan is torn from her throat. She is so warm, so impossibly tight, a smooth fist clenching around me, drawing me deeper, sucking me all the way in.
I bottom out, my hips flush against her, and everything about us stills as we adjust. She clenches around me, a spontaneous, involuntary spasm, and a curse is ripped from me.
My vision spots, and my entire body tenses. I have to stop. I have to pause, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs as I fight my own release. It’s a humiliatingly close call.
I won’t ruin this. I need to show her I can survive more than just this.
Once the roaring in my blood subsides to a manageable thrum, I move. The first thrust is a question. The second, an answer. The third is a declaration of war. The gentle, reverent pace shatters. This is no longer about worship; it’s about consumption. For her, I need to make this more about me.
The room fills with the sound of us. The ragged symphony of our breathing, the wet, rhythmic slide of our joining, the sharp, percussive slap of my skin against hers. It’s obscene. It’s perfect. I watch her, my eyes glued to the play of emotions on her face—the shock, the pleasure, the dazed surrender.
I have to keep talking. Have to keep making her feel good in every way possible.
“This,” I grind out, my voice gravel, “is mine.” I drive into her, emphasizing the point. Her back arches, a silent scream on her lips. “You understand? This sweet, tight little pussy is mine now. I’ll use it when I want. However I want.”
Her only response is a broken cry, her fingers scrabbling against the duvet, clutching the fabric as if it’s the only solid thing in a spinning world. The sight of her barely clinging on, matching my state has my hips pistoning harder, faster, losing any semblance of rhythm in a frantic, desperate chase.
I feel it the moment she breaks. It starts deep inside her, a fluttering tremor that quickly becomes a quake. Her eyes fly open, wide and unseeing, and she comes with a ragged scream that is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. Her inner muscles clamp down on me, milking, pulling, demanding as a second orgasm consumes her, leaving nothing behind.
My restraint disintegrates. A guttural grunt is torn from me as I plunge deep and spill into her, my own release a blinding, white-hot crash that seems to go on forever. I pour everything I have into her, every frustrated thought, every long-lived desire.
I collapse over her, completely spent, my body weight sinking into her softness. For a long moment, there is only the sound ofour harsh, syncopated breathing. Slowly, carefully, I pull out, the sensation almost unbearably sensitive.
I shift to my knees, looking down at the evidence of my claim. My seed oozes from her, a stark, creamy white against her flushed skin.
The sight does something to me. My breathing, which had just begun to slow, quickens again into sharp, hungry pants. I reach forward, my thumb hovering over the mess I’ve made.
“My pussy,” I whisper, the words a vow, “is going to keep everything I give it.”
I press my thumb against her, shoving my own release back inside. She gasps, her body clenching at the intrusion, but she doesn’t pull away. She just watches me with those huge, dazed eyes, accepting this.
“Keep your knees right there,” I command, my voice thick. I need to see her like this, open and filled with me.
She doesn’t ask why. She just obeys, her legs trembling as she holds the position. “Good girl.”
I run a hand down my face, feeling the sweat, the exhaustion, the sheer, unadulterated triumph. A low chuckle escapes me, born of disbelief and a dizzying kind of joy.
“This,” I tell her, my gaze locking with hers, “is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
Her smile is slow, lazy, and utterly devastating. A beautiful blush spreads across her chest and cheeks. “I’ve never,” she breathes, her voice hoarse, “enjoyed a present this much.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Oh, Ellie,” I murmur, leaning close. “You are naughty.”
Her resulting giggle is cut short as my hands find her hips. In one smooth, practiced motion, I flip her onto her stomach. She lets out a small, surprised squeak, burying her face in the duvet. Her back is a pale, elegant curve in the dim light. I lean over her, my body caging hers, and begin a slow trail of kisses upher spine. Each press of my lips is a reminder that she’s mine to worship. I feel her shiver beneath me.
I reach the delicate column of her neck, nuzzling the damp hairline before finding her ear. My voice is a low whisper against the shell.
“Are you sore?”
She turns her head slightly, her cheek resting on the duvet. She bites her plump, swollen lower lip, a gesture of pure, unadulterated temptation, and shakes her head.
