Thickness doesn't begin to cover it. Long, girthy, curved just enough to promise devastation in all the right places. My small hand barely wraps around the shaft, fingers not quite meeting, and I stroke once, experimentally, feeling him pulse hot against my palm.
He exhales sharply.
"Hope you're not scared of a little thickness."
I laugh—bold, throaty, the sound bubbling up from somewhere fearless.
"Oh, I'm terrified," I deadpan, sarcasm dripping like honey. "Positively quaking."
His chuckle rumbles deep, eyes hooded as I shift lower. I settle between his spread thighs, the bed dipping under my weight, and lean down. My tongue flicks out, tracing the flushed tip in a slow circle, gathering the salty bead of precum pooling there.
He groans, hips twitching minutely, but he holds still—honoring his promise.
Emboldened, I take him deeper.
Lips stretching around his girth, tongue swirling along the underside as I bob slowly. Wet sounds fill the room—obscene and perfect—mixed with his ragged breathing and my own muffled hums. I set a languid pace, savoring the weight on my tongue, the way he throbs against the roof of my mouth.
His hands stay locked behind his head, knuckles white with restraint, but his gaze burns—lazy yet intense, watching every slide and swirl like it's the most captivating show he's ever seen.
I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, hand twisting at the base where my mouth can't reach. His abs clench, tattoos dancing with each tense breath, and I feel him swell further.
"Fuck, Sweetness..." The words tear from him, rough and reverent.
I double my efforts—faster, sloppier, until his hips buck once, twice. He comes with a guttural groan, hot pulses flooding my mouth. I swallow greedily, milking every drop, then pull off with a wet pop.
Sitting back on my heels, I open my mouth—showing him the evidence—before swallowing deliberately. His eyes go molten, chest heaving.
"So," I say, voice husky and playful, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. "Should we start the rodeo? It'll be a trial."
I wink, confidence blazing bright.
He grins—wide, wicked, utterly undone yet utterly in control.
"Ride me up, Sugar."
The words hang between us like a dare wrapped in velvet, Tank's voice a low rumble that vibrates through the mattress and straight into my bones.
His mocha brown eyes gleam with that predatory patience, the kind that says he's content to let me steer—for now—but the beast beneath is coiled, ready to unleash. I feel it in the subtle flex of his thighs under mine, the way his inked chest rises and falls in measured breaths, tattoos shifting like shadows over muscle forged in fire.
I shift forward, knees sinking deeper into the charcoal sheets that pool around us like midnight silk. The bed's sheer black curtains sway gently from our earlier tussle, filtering the amber lamplight into soft, golden shards that dance across his skin. Snowflakes twirl beyond the frost-laced windows, a silent ballet against the inky night, but in here, the world narrows to this: the heat of his body, the addictive pull of his gaze, and the promise of unraveling control.
My hands brace on his chest, palms flat against the warm ridges of his abs, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat echomine. I lift my hips, positioning myself over his thick length, the tip brushing my slick entrance in a tease that sends sparks skittering up my spine. No rush. Not yet. I want to savor this, draw it out until the air crackles with need.
Slowly, deliberately, I sink down.
The stretch is exquisite—a burn that borders on divine, filling me inch by inch until I'm seated fully, his girth pressing against every sensitive wall. A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as my body adjusts, clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. His eyes flutter shut for a split second, jaw tightening, but he doesn't move. Doesn't thrust up. Just lets me take what I want.
Good Alpha. Let me lead this dance…
I start slow, rolling my hips in languid circles, grinding down to feel him hit that perfect spot deep inside. The friction builds like a storm gathering on the horizon, each movement sending waves of pleasure radiating outward. My breasts bounce lightly with the rhythm, nipples pebbled in the cool air of the room, and I watch his face—those brown eyes locked on where we're joined, darkening with every swivel.
Scents explode around us, thickening the atmosphere until it's almost tangible, a heady fog that clings to our skin and seeps into every breath. My cinnamon sugar sharpens, caramelizing under the heat of arousal, roasted coffee beans turning bold and bitter-sweet, dark vanilla melting into a syrupy haze. It spikes with each grind, blooming outward like steam from a fresh pour-over. Tank's aroma answers in kind—smoked leather deepening to charred hide, saffron flaring hot and exotic, amber resin crackling with possessive fire. They clash and merge, weaving into something new: a dizzying elixir of spice and smoke, sweet and savage, filling the room until my head swims, vision blurring at the edges.
It's overwhelming, this blend—our signatures tangling like vines in a forgotten garden, pulling us closer, binding us tighter.Every inhale drags me deeper into the haze, my omega purring with primal satisfaction.
I pick up my pace, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, hands sliding up to grip his shoulders for leverage. His muscles bunch under my fingers, veins standing out like rivers on a map, but still, he holds back, letting me set the tempo.
Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and I lean forward to lick it away—salty, mingled with his essence, a flavor that makes me clench harder around him.
