His breath leaves in a sharp exhale.
But still—he hesitates.
Because he knows I’m asking for the wrong thing.
This isn’t submission.
This is control.
I rise on my toes and kiss him before he can say no.
And when he kisses me back—it’s not gentle.
It’s not comforting.
It’s consuming.
His hands grip my waist, my ass, my hair. He walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall and my breath catches. His mouth is on my throat, my jaw, biting, tasting, claiming.
I moan—loud, desperate, shameless.
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.
“Tell me this is what you want,” he growls.
I reach down.
Take his hand.
And guide it between my legs.
His fingers part me—slick, hot, aching.
My voice breaks as I say it.
“This is what I want.”
He curses under his breath.
Then lifts me.
One motion—effortless.
My legs wrap around his waist, and he pushes inside me so hard, so deep, I cry out—not from pain.
From release.
Here, I am protected.
Where I’m seen.
Not as prey.
Not as broken.
As his.
His cock drives into me like he’s been starving.
