“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m—fuck—Dax?—”
He reaches up and pinches my nipple, and I scream.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I choke out, eyes fluttering shut as the orgasm builds like a thunderstorm.
His tongue slides from my pussy all the way up my arse, I squirm with the slow flick of his tongue and freeze when he slides his tongue over my hole.
I’m instantly thinking, no, no not there. He pushes his tongue through the tight hole and….oh god, why does this feel good?
“Fuck,” I cry out.
I arch my back, bracing myself against the wall as he drags his tongue over the tight rim again, a slow, filthy glide. Every nerve in my body is firing, every part of me screaming for more and less all at once. There’s nothing gentle about the way he eats me—he’s ravenous, some starving beast uncaged and set loose, and I’m his only meal. The rough stubble on his jaw rasping over the backs of my thighs, the slick, obscene noises he makes, the heat of his hands digging into my hips as if he’s holding on so I don’t melt right off the wall—it’s all too much and nowhere near enough.
“God, you like that, don’t you?” he says, low and raspy, voice vibrating against my bare skin. “You want me to make you fall apart? Bet no one’s ever made you feel this fucking good.”
He punctuates the words with a hard suck, teeth scraping lightly at my clit, and I swear I see stars. My knees buckle, but he’s there, arms thick and solid, holding me up, keeping me spread and open and exposed for him. It’s not just the way he devours my pussy or how he spits and laps and circles my ass with his tongue. It’s the way he worships every inch of me like I’m made of gold and sin.
I whimper, high and wild, as his tongue moves back down, spearing inside me, fucking me open, then back up to swirl and press just behind. He alternates, not letting me catch my breath, making each second a new kind of torture. Wetheat and pressure and that rough, scratchy chin burning new constellations across my skin.
I don’t know if I want him to stop or if I want to freeze this moment and live in it forever.
He grunts, like he’s pissed at me for not cumming already, then flattens his tongue and runs it up, slow as a death sentence, from my slicked pussy all the way to my ass and back. I’m shaking so bad my teeth buzz.
“Dax,” I gasp, trying to focus on anything except the wicked, sharp edge of pleasure. “I can’t?—”
He cuts me off with a hard, open-mouthed kiss right on my clit, sucking it between his lips and grinding the stubble of his chin against the swollen, sensitive skin.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, palm slapping against the wall. I’m crying a little, I think, but I don’t care. “Please, please, I?—”
He chuckles, wicked and dark. “That’s it, baby.”
He doesn’t let up, not even for a second. Even when I try to twist away, the thick bands of his arms keep me in place, force me to take every last filthy, devastating stroke of his tongue. He keeps me on the edge, hovering right there, never letting me fall. Every time I get close, he backs off just enough to keep me desperate, then starts again, building it higher, sharper, hotter.
“Mine,” he says, voice like gravel.
And then he rises, his muscled body unfolding before me like a dark promise.
His six-foot-three frame blocks the light, casting me in his shadow. I can see the slick shine of my arousal on his stubbled jaw, his chest rising and falling like he's just run miles. Those blue eyes—usually ice—now burn midnight dark, pupils blown wide with hunger.
"I'm going to fuck you now, butterfly," he growls, voice rough from what he's been doing between my thighs. "And you'll never look at another man again."
My cunt clenches at his words, empty and desperate to be filled. He doesn't wait for me to recover from his tongue. Doesn't offer gentleness.
Men like Dax don't make love. They claim. They mark. They ruin.
"Face me," he commands.
I turn toward him, legs still trembling, my naked body bared to his gaze. His eyes track a droplet of sweat sliding between my breasts, and he licks his lips like he can still taste me.
"Look at you," he breathes, stepping closer until the heat of him scorches my skin. "Fucking perfect."
He tears his shirt off in one violent motion, revealing that tattooed chest, those brutal scars. The belt comes next—leather sliding through loops with a hiss that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
When his fingers brush my hip, I whimper. Just that small touch feels like being branded.
