“This what’s kept you up at night?” I murmur. “Dreamin’ on how it’d feel to be stretched full of me?”
Her thighs part a fraction. She don’t answer, but she don’t need to.
“Spread for me, darlin’ and let me take what’s mine.”
She parts her thighs for me, her little wince not lost on me. I place a hand on her knee, gentle-like.
“That hurtin’ you?”
“No,” she says, voice steady but breathing fast. “Just tight.”
“I’ll go easy,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss her stomach, the line of her hip. “You just keep tellin’ me if somethin’ don’t feel right. You hear?”
She nods.
“I need to hear it.”
“Yes,” she says. “I promise.”
I wrap a hand beneath her thigh, lifting it to cradle her just right, taking care to mind that ache in her hip. With the other, I guide my length down and slide the tip through her slickness, dragging slow over that tender little bundle of nerves. She is dripping—wetness slicking my length the instant I touch her, a hot, silky flood that tells me how long she has ached for this. I slide upward, pressing the flushed crown against that sensitive bud, rubbing back and forth, circling, teasing until it swells harder beneath the pressure. Again and again I torment it—slow drags, light taps, firm circles—until her hips jerk helplessly upward, chasing more.
“Easy, now,” I whisper. “You ain’t in charge here. I am. I decide what you get and how hard you get it.”
I press forward slow, my teeth gritting tight at the feel of her stretching around the thick of me. Her warmth grips me like her body remembers every inch. She gasps, back arching like I lit a match to her spine.
“You’re mine,” I rasp. “Ain’t no one else ever gonna have you like this.” I draw back slow as cold sap then sink in again—deeper this time, harder, claiming more of her with every roll of my hips. “My woman. My home.”
Her back arches, mouth parting as tries to tilt her hips up into mine.
“Ah, ah,” I chide, gripping her good hip tight. “I warned you once. You don’t get to chase it. You take what I give. Understand?”
She swallows. “Yes.”
“Say it proper.”
“Yes, sir.”
I smile. “There’s my good girl.”
Then, I move. Slow, dragging strokes—out until the crown barely brushes her entrance, in until I’m seated deep, brushing that hidden place that makes her quiver. I watch her unravel, eyes fluttering. My thumb seeks out her swollen pearl and traces lazy circles—light at first, then firmer, rubbing until it pulses under my touch.
“You like that?” I murmur. “Like me teasin’ you here while I fill you slow? Feels like heaven, don’t it, little lamb?”
“Yes, sir,” she breathes, legs trembling against me. Her breath turns uneven. She makes a sound—half moan, half plea—and I know she’s close. Her fingernails dig into my shoulders like she’s hanging on for dear life.
Her head falls back, exposing the pale column of her throat. I can’t resist—I slide my hand around it, fingers curling possessively as my thumb leaves her bud. I squeeze just enough to feel the frantic flutter of her pulse, just enough to remind her who I am.
“Your heartbeat’s hammering against my palm. You trust me not to hurt you, little lamb?”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers, the words strained and soft under my grip.
I rock deeper inside her, slow and deliberate. “But you know I could, don’t you?”
She answers with a broken cry, arching sharply beneath me. Her diamond-hard nipples drag across my chest with every desperate heave of her breath.
“You’re right there, ain’t you? Right on the goddamn edge?” I rasp against her ear, holding her pinned. “Come for me,” I growl, thrusting deep and grinding hard against her core.
She shatters—Christ, does she shatter—clenching around me in waves that drag me deeper, her body pulling at mine like it’s starving for every inch.
