“Watch the screen,” he orders, his lips brushing my ear. “Watch them.”
I try. I really do. But every nerve ending is lighting up beneath his touch. His fingers find and circle my clit and with slow, deliberate focus. He listens for every shift in my breathing, watches for every twitch of muscle.
My back arches instinctively. “Please.”
He hums, satisfied by the desperation in my voice. “Take these off,” he orders, giving my shorts a gentle tug. “Then sit back down.”
I don’t hesitate. I shimmy out of them, heart hammering, nerves strung tight. When I return to my spot, sliding between his legs, his hand is already there, between my thighs, confident, bold, maddeningly slow.
Every stroke feels like a flame licking across my skin. Andwhen he finds that perfect rhythm… the one that makes my hips jerk and my breath catch… he locks in with ruthless focus. Circling. Pressing. Teasing.
I squirm against him, moaning softly, grinding back like I can’t help myself. Because I can’t. The pressure builds like a tidal wave, gathering power and weight, and then I crash into it, coming hard against his fingers with a sharp, breathless cry.
Before my legs have stopped shaking, he slips a finger inside me. Then another.
My head drops back against his shoulder with a broken sound, body instinctively curling around the sensation. He moves with purpose, each thrust of his fingers deep and deliberate. Curling. Stroking. Claiming.
“God,” I gasp. “That feels—”
“Perfect,” he finishes for me, his voice rough with restraint, thick with need.
I cling to his arm, nails digging in. The pressure returns, sharp and immediate, like I’ve been wound too tight for too long. My second orgasm builds fast, hot and unforgiving, and when it hits… I shatter. Again.
He holds me through it, his other arm wrapped tight around my middle, grounding me, his mouth brushing my temple with soft, quiet praise.
And then, when I’m limp and dazed and trying to remember how to breathe…
“Upstairs,” he growls. “Now.”
That’s all the warning I get before I’m sprinting up the stairs, heart thundering for reasons that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do withhim. Axel is right behind me, and the second we’re in my room, he kicks the door shut and crushes his mouth to mine.
There’s no teasing this time. No indecision. Just heat andneed and frantic hands tearing at clothes. My shirt. His jeans. My bra. His shirt. Fabric hits the floor in a trail of chaos, but I don’t care.
He backs me toward the bed, his hands cupping my face like I’m something precious even as we stumble, breathless, through the intensity. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I fall, and he comes down with me.
“Say stop,” he breathes, voice rough. “And I will.”
I nod, wide-eyed, breathless. “I won’t.”
His mouth covers mine again, slower now, deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Then he drags his cock through my slick heat, coating himself, lining up at my entrance. He watches me, staring straight into the darkest part of me, as he slowly presses in.
Inch by inch.
His pupils blow wide with every breath, and when he bottoms out, our moans tangle together, guttural and raw.
And then… he moves.
Each movement is a promise. Each brush of skin, a question.
Still okay? Still with me?
Yes. Always yes.
He starts slow, testing, learning my body. But when he finds his rhythm? The one that has my toes curling and my lips parting in broken cries? The air between us combusts.
His name spills from me like prayer. Like surrender.
We move together like we’ve done this a hundred times, even though it’s brand new. Messy. Honest. Real. He grinds himself perfectly against my clit with every push, hitting that same devastating spot he teased with his fingers just minutes ago. It’s too much. Not enough. I break again, fast and fierce.
