"Lift," I command.
He obeys, hips rising, and I drag the denim down his thighs, taking his boxers with them in one decisive pull. I strip them off completely, toss them aside, leaving him fully naked and exposed. His cock stands hard against his stomach, flushed and already leaking, and the sight sends a jolt of pure want through me.
I climb back onto the bed, straddle his hips again with my trousers still on, the rough fabric of the wool a deliberate barrierbetween us. The contrast is intoxicating—me still dressed and in control, him completely bare and at my mercy.
My palms glide over his chest, tracing every ridge of muscle, every raised scar that tells stories I'm only beginning to understand. When my thumbs find his nipples, I circle them with agonizing patience, watching his skin pebble in response. His breathing stutters. I pinch, hard enough to make him feel it, and he arches beneath me with a raw sound.
I bend and take one small peak into my mouth, tongue flicking, teeth scraping lightly. His hands fist in the sheets. I bite down—gentle then sharper—and his entire body jolts, his cock pulsing against my still-clothed thigh.
"Lana—"
I silence him by covering his mouth with mine again, slower this time, deeper, tasting the desperation I've created. Then I reach between us, wrap my fingers around his erection and squeeze once, he bucks into my grip with a choked curse.
I pull back, climb off him, stand at the foot of the bed. His eyes track every movement as I shrug out of my clothes, one button at a time I open my blouse, watching his chest heave, watching him twitch against his stomach with every inch of skin I reveal. The blouse drifts to the floor. My bra follows, and the sound he makes is almost desperate.
I leave the trousers on—just for the power of it—and crawl back over him. Skin to skin now, my breasts drag across his chest as I straddle him again, and I feel him shudder beneath me. His hands hover at my waist, waiting for permission he won't take without being given.
"Tell me what you want," I whisper against his lips, because I need to hear him ask instead of just taking.
"You." His voice is gravel and worship. "However you want to give yourself. You're in control here. Take whatever you need from me."
The words and the surrender in them unravel something inside me. I kiss him again, letting him feel the shift from anger to hunger to something that runs deeper than either. My hands work the button of my trousers; he helps drag them down my legs along with underwear already soaked through. When we're both finally naked, I rise up on my knees above him, thighs trembling with anticipation and need.
"Protection?" I manage, voice shaking with how much I want this.
He twists, grabs his wallet from the pile of discarded clothes, and produces a condom with unsteady fingers. I take it from him, tear it open, and roll it down his length in one agonizing glide, watching his muscles clench, hearing the broken sound that tears from him when my hand squeezes the base.
Then I brace my hands on his chest, meet his eyes, and sink down.
The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, mine to control. I take him inch by inch, managing every sensation, every flutter of my body around his, until he's buried completely and we're both shaking with the intensity of it.
His hands settle on my hips—not guiding, just anchoring, thumbs stroking small reverent circles against my skin.
I lean down until our foreheads touch and whisper against his mouth, "Now I take what's mine."
His fingers tighten on my hips, and I exhale a shaky breath—pleasure and relief and the particular intimacy of being connected this completely. I start moving, rolling my hips inrhythm that's mine to set, and he lets me, his hands on my waist for stability rather than direction.
"Touch me," I tell him, “I want your hands on my breasts, I want to feel you responding to what I'm doing.”
He complies immediately, hands moving from my hips to cup my breasts, thumbs circling nipples in ways that make everything inside me tighten with sensation. I increase the pace, riding him harder now, chasing pleasure that's about reclaiming my body as my own.
"God, Lana—" His voice is strained, hips starting to thrust up to meet my downward motion. "You're incredible."
The praise makes something in my chest feel warm and powerful. I lean forward, change the angle slightly, find the position that hits exactly where I need it. His hands move from my breasts to my hips, pulling me down harder with each thrust, and the combination of control and collaboration pushes me rapidly toward the edge.
"I'm close," I warn him, because I can feel orgasm building, can feel my body tightening around him in ways that suggest I'm seconds away from losing the rhythm entirely.
"Come for me baby." One of his hands moves from my hip to where we're joined, fingers finding my clit, circling it with pressure that's exactly what I need. "Let me feel it."
The added stimulation combined with the angle and his words pushes me over. I come hard, my body clenching around him, his name torn from my throat mixed with a broken moan I can't control. He watches my face the entire time, cataloging every expression, and somehow that makes it better—being seen in this moment of complete surrender while still maintaining control of what we're doing.
Before I've fully recovered, he's already shifting us, his hands guiding me with gentle pressure. "Turn over," he says, voice rough with want. "I want to feel you from a different angle."
I comply, letting him position me on my hands and knees, the vulnerability of the position making my pulse spike even as I'm trusting him with this. His hands slide up my back, tracing my spine in ways that make me arch into his touch.
"Like this?" I ask, looking back over my shoulder to see his face.
His eyes are dark with hunger, one hand gripping my hip while the other continues exploring. "Exactly like this. God, Lana—"
