“You ready?” he growls, low and dangerous, like the sound alone could undo me.
I nod because words are useless now. Because my body already answered.
Then, he rams into me in one powerful motion, pushing inside and stretching my walls to their limit—and I cry out.
Not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. Of him. Of this.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t retreat.
He claims.
Every movement deliberate.
Every thrust driving the truth deeper.
I’m his, and he wants me to know it.
My hands scrape over his skin—hard muscle, warmth, strength—until I clutch at him like an anchor. Like I’ll float away if I don’t.
He’s everywhere.
Sensation crashes through me in waves, too much and never enough all at once.
My body responds like it was built for this. For him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent. “So damn beautiful when you come apart for me.”
I’m so close.
“I wanna see my cum on your skin, Baby. I wanna mark you withme.”
My eyes go wide.
My pussy squeezes him.
Because, yes, I want that, too.
“Yes, please, yes.”
“You there?” he asks again.
His cock throbs inside of me, his thumb glides over my clit.
Then, I shatter.
And while my body is climaxing, I watch as Thatcher pulls out of me, takes his thick cock in hand—one stroke, two—then hot cum floods from the tip and lands on my sex, my belly, my tits.
And my one orgasm turns into two.
Whatever this is, I know it’s not just sex.
It’s something else.
It’s connection.
Possession without fear.
Desire without apology.
