The stretch is hot, the pressure immense, and I cry out, fingers slipping on the polished wood, thighs trembling from the effort of staying upright. He gives me no time to adjust.
He thrusts again, and again, finding a rhythm that is brutal and perfect and entirely without mercy.
He holds me down with one hand fisted in my hair, the other curved around my hip as he drives into me, the slap of his body against mine loud in the dim quiet of the room, joined only by the sounds he pulls from my throat and the wrecked gasps that fall from his.
"Look at you," he pants, leaning over to bite the back of my shoulder, the scrape of his teeth a raw brand I feel deep in my belly.
"Bent over like you were made for this. Taking me like you fucking need it."
I do.
Every thrust drives it deeper—this need, this ache, this utter submission that feels less like defeat and more like revelation.
My body coils tight around him, my nerves alight with every graze of his fingers, every breathless curse he snarls into my skin, and I am so close I could break.
He knows it.
He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and shaking, and flips me over onto my back, dragging me to the veryedge of the table so my thighs fall open to him, obscenely wet and pulsing and desperate.
I reach for him, nails catching on his shoulder, trying to pull him back in, but he pauses, looming over me, eyes dark with heat and something sharper.
"You come when I say," he tells me, and the warning is edged with promise.
"Not before."
His words settle somewhere low in my stomach, molten and irrevocable, but I nod anyway, throat too tight for sound, chest heaving with the effort of restraint.
My pulse pounds in my ears, my whole body trembling with the strain of holding back.
I am wrecked already, ruined in a dozen silent ways, but still I lie there, wide open and waiting, the muscles of my inner thighs shaking with every second he keeps me suspended in this exquisite purgatory.
He watches me for a long moment, the corners of his mouth curling in satisfaction, and then he steps back just far enough to grip my hips and yank me closer, the table groaning beneath me as I slide across its polished surface.
He sheathes himself in one slow, punishing thrust that buries him to the hilt, and I choke on a moan that sounds more like surrender than I'd care to admit.
His cock is thick, impossibly hard, dragging across every sensitive place inside me, and the stretch is sharp enough to feel like tearing, though I do not want him to stop.
I want him deeper.
I want him rougher.
I lift my legs around his waist, bracing one foot against the table's edge, and he fucks into me like he's trying to rewrite something—history, punishment, ownership, all carved into the rhythm of his hips, the drive of his body against mine.
His eyes stay locked on my face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every desperate twitch of my mouth as I struggle to keep from begging.
But it's no use.
"Please," I whisper, nails clawing at the edge of the table, hips grinding up into his with a need so intense it borders on agony.
"Please, Ruairí, let me?—"
"Not yet," he growls, and then he pulls out again, wet and flushed and glistening, and flips me like a doll, like he owns the weight of me, like this body is his to position and command.
My chest hits the table first, the angle forcing my back into a deep curve, my arms spread out wide as he yanks my hair into a fist and wrenches my head back, not cruelly, but firmly, his lips ghosting over my ear as he says, "You'll come when I say you can, and not a second before."
I nod again, my breath catching, tears prickling the corners of my eyes not from pain but from how good it feels to be undone by him, to be held this tightly, known this deeply, ruined so completely that nothing else matters.
I would fall for him like this every time, broken across this table, my spine bowed and my voice frayed from wanting.
