He braces one hand beside my head, the other sliding under my thigh, lifting my leg to wrap around his waist. The change in angle makes me cry out. He curses low, his voice hoarse.
“Jesus, Seraphina… The way your pussy squeezes me.”
I can barely speak, barely breathe. I just hold onto him, my nails digging into the flex of his back as he thrusts deeper.
Every movement is calculated, like he’s memorizing me from the inside out. No rush. Just slow, devastating strokes that make my body clench around him with every pass.
“Look at me.” His voice is sensually soft. “I want to see your eyes when you come for me like my good little girl.”
I try. God, I try. But the pleasure is too much. He thrusts in again, hips grinding at the end, and my back arches off the cushions.
He leans down, mouth brushing my jaw, my cheek, my lips. Not kissing—merely touching. Like he wants to feel the tremble in my breath.
“You feel so fucking good.” He groans. “You were made for this. For me.”
And I shouldn’t love that. I shouldn’t love that possessive note in his voice—like he’s staking a claim he has no right to. But I do. I do. Because he’s not just inside me—he’s inside everything. My skin, my thoughts, my stupid, traitorous heart.
He begins to move faster now. Deeper. Each stroke lands harder, sending jolts through my core. The slap of skin on skin grows louder, filthier, but I don’t care. I want to hear it. I want to feel him use my body and worship it at the same time.
I tighten around him again, another orgasm already building. Greedily, desperately, I slide my hands down his back to clutch his hips to pull him in harder.
He growls. “Fuck, Seraphina. You gonna come for me again? Milk my cock like that?”
“Yes…yes…” I whimper, nodding, grinding my hips up against him. “I’m so close.”
He reaches between us, and his thumb finds my clit.
“Come for me. Do it now.”
A single tight circle, pressed against me hard, is all it takes. Choking, sobbing, my body jerks beneath his.
And he doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it—deeper, harder—the sound of his breath rough in my ear.
“God, that’s it. That’s my girl.” His breaths are ragged. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”
He’s so sleek and strong, and with the way his weight is on top of me, I have a hard time moving, but he grabs one of my legs to help me.
Suddenly he’s seated even deeper, against my womb, stealing my breath.
“Fuck yes.” He clenches his jaw. “So wet. So perfect. Let me fill you up. Let me come inside this tight little cunt.”
The words break something open in me. I lock my legs more tightly, wanting everything he’ll give me.
With a roar, he slams into me one last time and holds, cock buried deep. His body jerks, his face pressed into my neck, and I feel it—every shudder, every pulse of release.
He stays there for a long, breathless moment, still connected, his weight solid over me, braced on trembling arms.
Then, finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are gentler now. Intense but no longer guarded. He’s looking at me like he sees me—not the maid, not the intern he thought was trying to bring him down. Just me.
He brushes a sweat-damp strand of hair from my face. “You okay?”
I nod. I want to say something clever, something cutting—keep my armor intact. But there’s nothing left of me.
And for the first time in my entire life, I feel worshipped.
“Seraphina?” He angles his head to one side. “I asked if you’re okay.”
“Yes.”
