Eliza
HEAT
The air between us tightens,thick as a storm about to break. The cold bite of the concrete burns beneath my knees, but I barely feel it. Every nerve in my body is tuned to him. There’s no noise but our breathing, and even that feels deliberate, held back.
A stillness that isn’t emptiness … It’s control. His control.
I expected him to smirk. To tease. But he doesn’t. He just stares at me with an intensity so unflinching it feels like pressure, like weight pressing down over every inch of my exposed skin.
When he finally moves, it’s only to cup the side of my face. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, then drifts lower to rest at the hinge of my jaw, like he’s testing the muscle. His touch is firm, sure, but not cruel. His fingers trace the shape of my mouth, and I know he’s not admiring it. He’s owning it.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low and rough, but not uncertain. It’s not a question born of hesitation. It’s respect. A final pause before everything changes.
I nod. My throat’s too tight to speak.
He unbuttons his pants, the sound barely more than a whisper.He frees himself with one hand, and there’s no show to it. He’s not performing. Not trying to be the fantasy I shared in the dark. He’s just being Cooper. And that, somehow, is more intimate than any fantasy I could have conjured.
“Open your mouth.”
The command doesn’t startle me. It doesn’t even feel like a command. It feels like an invitation. My lips part, and I look up at him—not seeking approval.
Just—present.
Completely, wholly present.
He steps forward, the head of his cock brushing against my tongue. The weight of him is immediate. He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. He just rests there. Heavy. Warm. Real. I close my lips around him slowly, and his exhale is quiet and ragged, like I’ve taken more from him than he expected.
His fingers tighten in my hair. Not to pull. To guide.
And when he moves—slow, shallow thrusts—I let go. I let my mind still. Let sensation take the place of shame. Let want replace fear. I’ve spent my entire life defining myself by words. But right now, there are none. Just the sound of his breath. The soft, wet slide of his body in my mouth. The dizzying ache of surrender.
He doesn’t talk much—not the way I do. But now, every quiet sound he makes is a language. A story I understand on instinct. His grunt when I take him deeper. His sharp inhale when my tongue traces the underside. The low curse when I gag, just a little, and don’t pull back.
“Just like that,” he says, voice cracking with restraint. “Don’t you dare stop.”
The words don’t humiliate me. They anchor me. I’m not ashamed. I’m not small. I’m his. And he’s not degrading me—he’s recognizing me. Recognizing every hidden part of me I thought I’d buried too deep to ever unearthagain.
When he finally pulls free, I’m breathless, dizzy, spit-wet, and aching. But I don’t want to stop.
I want all of him.
He hauls me to my feet, slow and careful but without asking, without breaking the thread of dominance that now connects us. My legs tremble. Not from fear. From release. From the space that’s opened between us, carved by the heat of his gaze and the softness of his grip.
He turns me—hands on my hips—and bends me over the back of the metal chair. The chill of it shocks my skin, makes me gasp. And still, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask.
He slides a hand between my thighs, fingers brushing the heat there, the slick evidence of what we’ve already done. “Fuck,” he mutters, low and reverent. “You’re dripping.”
I bite my lip. Not out of shame. Out of the unbearable truth of how badly I need what comes next.
When he presses inside, it’s not brutal.
It’s not gentle either.
It’s complete.
A slow, steady claiming that fills every inch of me until I’m stretched around him, held open and helpless, right where I need to be. His hand curls around the back of my neck, holding me down—not to dominate, but to center me. To hold me still so I can feel every inch of him. His body. His weight. His need.
He thrusts again. Deeper. My body rises to meet him without thought.
