“You feel that, hellcat?” he rasps, voice all grit and gravel. “Just the tip and you’re already about to fall apart. So fucking tight. So wet. This sweet pussy’s begging for it.”
“Malachi—”
His lips brush mine, breath hot. “Tell me how bad you want my cock. Say it.”
“I...fuck...I want it. I want you so bad it hurts.”
His mouth curves dark and dangerous. “That’s more like it.”
Then he buries himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.
I cry out, head falling back, hands flying to the edge of the bench to brace myself. My entire body arches, so full, so deep, so sudden it knocks the breath right out of me.
“Fuck, Malachi—”
His hands grip my thighs hard, angling my hips just the way he wants, and he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in, dragging another broken sound from my throat.
“Look at me,” he says.
I try, eyes fluttering open, chest heaving.
He grabs my chin, not rough—just commanding—and forces me to hold his gaze. His other hand slides up, wraps around the front of my throat with just enough pressure to make my heart race.
Not choking. Just claiming.
“Do you feel that?” he asks, voice low and brutal. “That stretch? That sting? It’s mine. It’s what you’ve been needing.”
He drives into me again, slow and deep, making sure I feel every inch.
I’m gasping now, head spinning, heat pooling low and tight in my belly. He’s relentless, hips slamming into me with power and precision, his fingers pressing into my skin with the intent to brand me from the inside out.
“Built to take me,” he groans, biting down on my shoulder, dragging his teeth across my skin. “This sweet little pussy was made for me.”
I moan, loud and ragged, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into skin and muscle. I am his.
But he slows then. Changes. Draws it out. Pulls out until just the head stretches me, then pushes back in, slow and deep, again and again until I’m crying, shaking, clinging to him.
“You’re not coming yet,” he whispers. “Not until I say. Not until I see you break.”
He moves with a purpose: to wreck me. Not just my body, my breath, my brain, my heart. Every thrust is a promise, every circle of his thumb on my clit a threat. When I come again, harder than the first, it shatters something inside me.
He doesn’t stop. Lets me ride it out, then pushes me further. His hand slides under my thigh, lifts it, then hits a new angle that has me gasping, sobbing, begging.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growls. “One more. You can give me one more. Let me take care of you.”
No one has ever said that to me. Not in this moment. Not while I’m unraveling, raw and wrecked, but still needing more. It hits somewhere deep, somewhere lonely. I break on the third one, back arching, throat raw from screaming. My body clenches down around him so hard he curses, buries deep, and finally gives in.
“Fuck, Candace—” he groans, face buried in my neck, hips jerking as he comes, pulsing inside me. “So good. So fucking good. Made for me.”
He doesn’t let go. He holds me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my sides until I stop shaking.
“I love taking care of you,” he murmurs against my skin. “You don’t even know what that does to me.”
And the worst part?
I believe him.
