He shifts us.
Carries me to the bed without pulling out.
Lays me down.
Stays inside.
Then he starts again.
Slower.
Rougher.
Grinding with every stroke like he wants to leave something permanent behind.
His fingers find my throat again—light pressure, just enough to choke a whimper into a moan.
His other hand slips between us.
He rubs me hard, fast—fingers slick with how soaked I am.
“I want you to come,” he says, mouth at my ear.
“But not because you’re scared.”
I sob.
“Come because you know I own this.”
“I—”
He curls his fingers.
“Say it.”
“You own me—fuck—you own me?—”
My orgasm hits so hard I scream.
My whole body bows off the mattress, trembling, convulsing, heat flooding out of me as I clamp around him.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it—like he’s chasing something deeper.
His own breath breaks.
And then he’s there too.
Thrusting harder, jaw clenched, veins in his neck tight.
“Take it,” he growls. “Fucking take it.”
And when he spills inside me—it’s a growl.
A claim.
A war cry.
