Sunlight etches every ridge of him. That sharp V of muscle leading from his hips? A fucking arrow pointing to the thick, heavy length of him. His cock juts upward, veins mapping the rigid shaft, the flushed head glistening with a beautiful pearl of pre-cum. My mouth waters.
Lower, his balls hang full and tight against corded thighs that flex as he moves.
He doesn’t reach for a condom yet. Instead, he prowls onto the bed, his knees bracketing my hips. His palms slide up my thighs, his fingertips tracing the lace edges of my underwear.
“These,” he rasps, “are fucking obscene. They don’t belong here right now.”
One thumb hooks into the soaked fabric at my hip, revealing how thoroughly I’ve drenched the thin material. The scent of my arousal hangs between us.
With agonizing slowness, he peels the lace down. First one side, then the other, his knuckles grazing my inner thighs.
When he reaches my knees, he pauses, lets me feel the humid air kiss my bare folds, before dragging them completely off.
His eyes darken as they rake over my exposed wetness.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Fuckingdrippingfor me.”
Only then does he grab a condom packet from his discarded pants. The foil glints as he tears it open with his teeth, the muscles of his chest and shoulders rippling with the movement.
His eyes, dark and hungry, lock on mine, while his other hand slowly strokes his rigid length.
I watch, transfixed, as more pre-cum beads at the flushed tip.
He pinches the latex reservoir, rolling it over his thick crown with deliberate slowness. A sharp hiss escapes him when the cool material meets his heated skin, and his abs clench like steel cables, that perfect V above his hips flexing as he works the sheath downward with long, sure strokes.
I bite my lip watching him. The way his knuckles whiten as he fists himself, the way his biceps bulge with each downward pull, the visible tremor in his thigh when he reaches the base. Every movement screams restrained power. A billionaire used to commanding boardrooms now barely commanding himself.
“Fuck,” he grinds out, smoothing the last millimeter with a rough palm that makes him shudder. His cock pulses visibly under the latex, the veins standing in stark relief. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re wild with barely leashed hunger. “Look what you do to me. Turn me into a goddamn animal.”
He doesn’t let me respond. In one fluid motion, he flips me onto hands and knees, doggy style in front of him. He climbs onto the bed and kneels behind me. His newly sheathed hardness slaps against my lower back, and his palm lands on my ass with a sharp crack that echoes throughout the villa.
Hopefully Ysela isn’t still home.
She definitely is.
“Mine,” he rasps against my ear, fingers digging bruises into my hip. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I reply.
The thick head of his cock nudges against my soaked entrance.
“This okay?” The question’s gritted through clenched teeth.
“Define okay.”
“Amara.” His voice is pure gravel, cock pulsing against me.
“Yes,” I manage. “It’s very okay. It’s—oh god.”
He sheathes himself in one excruciatingly slow thrust, stretching me, filling me until I whimper.
His forearms cage my ribs, his chest plasters to my back.
Every inch of skin contact burns.
He sets a rhythm. Deep, relentless pulls that scrape my inner walls, then brutal snaps of his hips that make me see stars.
“You feel...divine,” he rasps against my ear. “Squeezing me like a fucking vise. Greedy little cunt.”
