But he doesn't stop.
He carries me, still inside me, across the room and drops me onto the wide leather couch by the fire, the heat making sweat bead along my spine as he strips off what's left of my bearings and spreads my legs again like he's already hungry for another round.
He kneels between my thighs and licks me clean, tongue greedy and slow, eyes locked on mine the entire time, like he's daring me to look away, like he wants to see the exact moment I give up pretending I have any power left.
When I come again on his tongue, he doesn't even pause, just crawls up my body and shoves his cock back inside me, this time slower, deeper, grinding into me with the full weight of his body, pressing my knees to my chest so I can feel every inch, so I know exactly whom I belong to.
He fucks me right there, and when he lifts me into his lap, settling me astride him with my knees braced on either side and my body already shaking from how hard I need him, he keeps me there, impaled on his cock, grinding me downonto every thick inch with his hands firm at my hips, his mouth at my throat, his voice filthy and low in my ear as he tells me exactly how good I feel, exactly how tight I am around him, exactly how much more he plans to take.
At some point, I forget how many times I've come, forget where I am, forget everything but the rhythm of his body under mine and the wet, aching drag of his cock moving inside me, again and again, until I'm gasping and trembling and begging for more.
He pulls me to the window, bends me forward with one hand in my hair and the other fisted at my hip, fucking me hard from behind while the firelight flickers across the glass and my breath fogs the pane.
He says, "You're mine now, Keira. Don't you ever forget it."
I moan and whimper and plead until my body is limp and used and aching in the best way I have ever known, until he's satisfied enough to lift me into his arms again and carry me to bed.
And even then, he takes me once more.
The mattress dips beneath us as he lowers me, not gently, but with care, and then he's above me, braced on his forearms, eyes burning into mine as he nudges my thighs apart with his knees.
The room is lit only by firelight now, and every shadow that flickers across his face makes him look less like a man and more like something carved from heat and hunger, something older than language, something that has known how to fuck long before anyone had the nerve to write it down.
I spread for him instinctively, willingly, without shame, my legs falling open like I was made to take him this way, and when he presses the head of his cock against me, not pushing yet, just letting me feel the shape of what's coming, thick and long and still impossibly hard, I arch up with asound that isn't even a word, just a breathless, desperate plea that I'm no longer trying to hide.
He rolls his hips forward and sinks into me with unbearable slowness, inch by inch, the stretch almost too much, the fullness making my back bow and my fingers claw at the sheets as I try to breathe through it, try to take it all without coming too fast, too soon, because the way he fills me is not polite or restrained—it's total, and it doesn't leave room for anything else.
"Jesus fuck, you're tight," he groans, his voice dragging out of him like gravel, and then his mouth is at my throat, not biting, not sucking, just breathing me in as he starts to move, pulling out just enough to make me feel the loss, then driving back in harder, deeper, until my entire body rocks with the force of it.
Every thrust sends a shudder through the bedframe, every roll of his hips presses me further into the mattress, and I can hear it all—the sound of him moving inside me, the wet slap of skin against skin, the rough edge of his voice as he starts to unravel.
"Fuck, look at you," he growls into my ear, fucking me with long, grinding strokes that hit so deep I can feel them in my ribs.
"You're fucking soaked. Taking me like you were made for this. You want it hard, don't you? Want me to fuck the attitude out of you?"
"Yes," I gasp, the word broken and raw, my hands gripping his arms, his shoulders, anything I can hold to keep myself grounded, because I am spinning now, drowning in the sensation of him, the relentless rhythm of his hips, the heat building between us like fire trying to escape through my skin.
He adjusts his angle and slams into me with a force that makes me cry out, and when I do, he does it again, over andover, fucking into that exact spot, his cock dragging against the place inside me that makes my vision blur and my mouth fall open in a soundless scream.
"You gonna come for me like this?" he whispers against my lips, thrusting deep, grinding hard, holding himself inside me so I can feel every throb, every twitch.
"Gonna soak my cock like the needy little thing you are?"
And I do.
I come with a gasp and a cry, my body seizing around him, muscles tightening, back arching as the orgasm rips through me with no warning, no control, just a wave of unbearable pleasure that leaves me boneless, shaking, whimpering beneath him.
But he doesn't stop.
He fucks me through it, never letting up, his hands braced on either side of my head, his breath hot and ragged against my cheek as he keeps thrusting, slower now, deeper, like he's trying to imprint himself into the deepest part of me, and it works, because I feel him everywhere—under my skin, behind my eyes, in my blood.
"You're not done," he growls, and he's right, because even as the aftershocks of the first orgasm are still rolling through me, I can feel another one building, thicker, hotter, heavier.
He grabs my thigh and pulls it higher, hooking my leg over his shoulder, opening me up wider, changing the angle so he can hit even deeper, and when he does, I scream.
I don't care how loud I am.
I don't care that the whole house might hear.
