"Say it."
"I'm yours." She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper. "Now fuck me like you mean it."
I slam home.
She cries out, her nails raking down my back, and I give her exactly one second to adjust before I start to move.
Hard. Fast. Brutal.
The way I've been wanting to fuck her since the first moment I saw her in that garden.
The counter creaks beneath us.
The mirror rattles against the wall.
She's making sounds I didn't know humans could make—whimpers and moans and broken fragments of my name—and I'm not much better.
Grunting and cursing and telling her how good she feels, how tight, how fucking perfect.
"More," she gasps. "RJ—harder?—"
I pull out, flip her around, and bend her over the counter.
She braces herself on her forearms, watching me in the mirror as I grip her hips and slam back inside.
This angle is deeper, better.
I can see her face as I fuck her, can watch her expression shatter with each thrust.
Can see the way her tits bounce, the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes roll back when I hit that spot inside her.
I wrap my hand around her throat again, pulling her back against my chest.
Not choking—just holding.
Claiming.
She moans and tilts her head back, giving me access to her neck, and I bite down on the junction of her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.
"Mine," I growl against her skin.
"Yours," she agrees, breathless. "Yours, yours, yours?—"
I feel her tighten around me, feel her orgasm building, and I reach around to circle her clit with my fingers.
She detonates almost instantly, her whole body seizing, her pussy clamping down on my cock so hard I see stars.
I follow her over the edge with a roar, burying myself deep and spilling inside her in hot, endless pulses.
The pleasure whites out my vision, blanks my mind, reduces me to nothing but sensation and release andher.
When I come back to myself, we're both slumped against the counter, breathing like we've run a marathon.
She's trembling in my arms.
I'm trembling too.
"Holy shit," she whispers.
