“Then why,” I growl, lips brushing her skin, “are you shaking like you’ve been waiting your whole life for me to count to three?”
Her denial is thin, paper-thin, and it rips apart under my hands.
I spin her back toward the table, pressing her palms flat against the wood, my body pinning hers there before she has time to think, before she can catch her breath.
“You wanted three,” I murmur against the nape of her neck, my teeth grazing the soft curve. “Now you’ll take it.”
Her spine arches, involuntary, a whimper strangled in her throat as my grip forces her down just enough that the table bites into her hips. I drink it in—every flicker of rebellion, every tremor of need that gives her away.
She’s mine in this moment. Not Kate’s best friend. Not my assistant. Mine.
My hand slides up her arm, pinning her wrist harder to the table. “Say it,” I demand, voice edged with steel.
Her breath hitches. “Say what?”
“That you’ve been waiting for this. That you’ve been dripping through every command, every look. Don’t lie to me, Brooklyn.”
“I—” She cuts herself off, her voice breaking in the middle, and it’s all the confession I need.
I chuckle dark, pressing closer. “That’s what I thought.”
When I push inside her, it’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s the culmination of every threat, every tease, every number that’s been hanging over her head. She cries out, and the sound is raw enough to twist something low in my gut.
“Fuck—Dean?—”
“Louder,” I growl, driving harder, hand sliding from her wrist to her throat, tilting her head back so she has no choice but to meet my eyes over her shoulder. “I want this empty house to know who you belong to.”
Her lips part, a sob tangled with a moan, and she breaks under me, voice shattering on my name.
That’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been chasing since the first time I looked at her too long.
Fuck, she feels so fucking good. Her pussy grips my cock like she never wants to let go. Her pussy is soaking me, every gasp has me throbbing deep inside of her. “That’s it, baby girl.” I breathe into her. My hips slam into her with every thrust her gasps become louder. Driving all the doubt from her body while her pussy grips my cock so fucking hard I see fucking stars.
“Daddy.” She screams.
Fuck.
She doesn’t know what that does to me, my pretty baby making a mess all over my cock. “Baby girl, fuck, you’re perfect.”
Her body trembles beneath mine but the only thing I can think about is her pussy grips my cock, how sweet she sounds crying for me and how fucking nice it feels her dripping her desire all over me. I want her to fucking paint me in her juices. I want to bathe in her fucking scent, so I can smell her wherever I go.
Her fucking sweet words turn into an incoherant mess, I can feel the sheen of sweat dripping down her body. Her throat crackles as she continue to scream with every deep thrust, my cock massages her walls and I welcome the fucking feeling of her squeezing me so tight, I almost explode.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop.” She begs while I slide as deep as I can go.
“Come on, baby girl, cum all over my cock. Make a mess of me.” I growl enjoying the response my words have over her body. “Come on, baby, cum all over daddy’s cock.” Her scream is inhuman and her body shakes so hard it tips me over the fucking edge.
I squeeze her throat so tight, I think she might lose consciousness. My body trembles and I moan out my ownpleasure against her skin as I finally feel the hot strands of my desire slide inside of her.
My name is still on her lips, her body trembling, when I bury myself so deep inside her that she’ll feel me for days and only then do I loosen my hand from her throat, leaning close, my voice ragged but sure.
“Three was never the end, baby girl. It’s where we start.”
She collapses against the table, arms limp, chest heaving like she’s been dragged under and only just clawed her way back up. Sweat slicks her spine, clings to my chest where I’m still pressed flush against her, refusing to give her space. I’m still buried inside, and I don’t want to move—not when she’s pulsing around me like her body hasn’t figured out I’m finished yet.
Her cheek rests against the cool wood, eyes closed, lips parted. She looks wrecked. Beautifully, dangerously wrecked.
I drag my mouth over the curve of her shoulder, tasting salt, tasting her. My hand strokes down her side, possessive, claiming, before gripping her hip tight enough to leave marks she’ll see later. Proof.
