Before, my plan was to tease him, keep him on the edge, but my body involuntarily folds around him.
There’s nowhere like home.
Nowhere like Kane.
Nothing like his ten brutal, girthy inches.
Those stars in my eyes become snowflakes in a shaken globe.
He’s sodeepnow.
Somehow, today, I forgot just how big he is, how much he fills me, how good he feels.
When I move, the burn intensifies, building to the very edge of pain.
His face screws up more with every breath.
I plant my hand on his chest for balance as I slowly lift off him, then sink back down, my rhythm slow.
Glorious agony.
My hips jerk more, plunging him deeper, my pussy hugging his cock.
“Keep fucking going,” he grinds out, his eyes locked on mine.
There it is.
Permission.
To have the illusion of control, even if we both know he has full power to make me come into next year.
“Fucking obscene how good you feel,” he whispers. “Come on my cock, duchess. Come soon.”
He inhales sharply as I pick up speed.
His eyes are ocean depths and shadowed turquoise.
I squeeze him again, helpless to the motion.
“Don’t come yet,” I tell him, leaning forward, pressing against his chest and moving again.
The friction is unbearable.
Too much, but not enough.
Everything, and nothing.
His jaw clenches.
But his hands are so soft, even when they’re ready to tear me in two.
“Margot,Margot,” he grinds my name under his breath, warning me this stalemate can’t last, and he’s going to make me pay dearly if I make him lose it first.
That makes two of us.
I love the way he looks at me—all heavy eyes and parted mouth and sharp, staccato breaths.
Like no one else has ever made him feel this incredible.
