He shifts his weight, changing the angle, and the new position makes me see stars.
“Yes—God—Slade!” Words spill from my lips in broken fragments as he drives into me. My coherence shatters with each thrust, reduced to primal sounds and half-formed pleas. “Please, don’t stop—there—fuck—I can’t—”
My body arches, every muscle taut with approaching release. I’ve never been taken apart like this, never felt so completely owned and desired.
“Mine,” Slade growls.
His pace increases, each thrust targeted. One hand grips my hip, the other wraps around my neglected cock, stroking in time with his movements.
“You can come now,” he says, voice rough with exertion. “Come for me, Owen. Show me how good I make you feel.”
The permission, combined with the dual stimulation, pushes me over the edge. My orgasm crashes through me with an intensity I’ve never experienced before. Wave after wave of pleasure, starting deep inside where he fills me and radiating outward to every extremity. I cry out, back arching off the bed, vision going white at the edges as I spill over his hand and onto my stomach.
“That’s it,” Slade growls, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “So fucking perfect. So tight around me.”
He follows me moments later, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes with a deep groan. His hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, his expression transformed by pleasure into something vulnerable.
For several heartbeats, we remain frozen, connected in the most intimate way possible. Then Slade carefully withdraws. Heties off the condom, disposing of it in the bedside trash, then collapses beside me on the bed.
We lie there, breathing hard, neither of us speaking. My body feels different, pleasantly sore and satiated. Slade’s arm drapes across my chest, pulling me closer until my head rests on his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks, the dominance in his voice replaced by genuine concern.
“Better than okay,” I assure him, surprised at how natural it is to be cradled against him like this. “That was…incredible.”
He hums in agreement, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. “You’re incredible,” he corrects.
The compliment warms me from the inside out. I turn my face into his chest, breathing in his scent—clean sweat and subtle cologne.
“I wasn’t expecting any of this,” I admit. “Not you. Not…what I apparently like.”
“Life’s full of surprises.”
“This is a pretty big one.”
“Mmm,” he agrees. “But a good one, I think.”
I give him a smile—the most sincere smile I’d had in weeks—and murmur, “Not just a good one.”
Slade’s hand cups my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. “This isn’t a one-time thing. You understand that, right? What we just did—what you gave me—I’m not letting that go.”
The possessiveness in his tone should scare me. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly again.
“I don’t want you to,” I admit.
His smile is soft but certain, filled with promise. “Good boy.”
8
Slade
MORNING LIGHT FLITERS THROUGH the shades, painting golden stripes across Owen’s sleeping form. He’s still nestled against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, his breathing deep and even. The weight of him anchors me to the moment—to this unexpected reality where I’ve spent the night with a man I met two days ago. His hair is tousled from sleep and our activities, his full lips parted. In slumber, his face carries none of the self-consciousness or uncertainty from yesterday. He looks peaceful. Claimed.
I shift, not wanting to wake him as I take inventory of the marks I’ve left on his body. The pale column of his throat bears several purpling bruises—evidence of my mouth, my teeth, my need to mark what’s mine. More bruises dot his collarbones, his chest, the inside of his thighs. My fingerprints are stamped into the flesh of his hips, where I gripped him while taking him apart.
I’ve always been gentle with the women I’ve been involved with, restraining my impulses out of fear of hurting them. With Owen, I released those inhibitions and embraced the part of myself I had always kept under control.
The sight of him now rouses something primal in me—satisfaction mingled with the faintest edge of guilt. I’ve marked him, perhaps too thoroughly for someone still navigating the shock of this new desire. My fingertips trace a dark bruise at the juncture where neck meets shoulder. The skin there is warm, slightly raised. Owen stirs at my touch, his breathing pattern changing as consciousness reclaims him.
