“I think I’m addicted to you,” she says, voice a raw scrape, “I can’t get enough. Every day, every night, I want you?—”
“You have me.” I drop to my knees, kissing up her thigh, then biting the flesh just above her knee hard enough to leave teeth marks. “You own me, Audrey. You know that, right?”
She nods, but I want to hear her say it. I catch her wrist, stopping her from moving.
“Say it. ‘You own me’.”
“I own you, Logan.” She’s blushing, but it’s not from embarrassment. It’s pride, pleasure, the rush of finally having something—someone—she wants with her whole heart and not apologizing for it.
“Good girl,” I say, the words tasting like fire in my mouth. “You own me. All of me.”
She’s panting, still rubbing her clit, beautiful and wild in the soft light filtering from the hallway. I hook her ankles over my shoulders and plunge two fingers inside her, crooking them forward until she gasps and arches off the lounge. I lick her, slow and deep, greedy for the taste of her—every salty-sweet tremor, every slick shudder. I want to memorize it, mark it into my neural pathways forever.
“Logan—” She’s writhing, bucking, a hand fisted in my hair. “Oh god, I’m gonna?—”
“That’s the point.”
I dive in again, but this time I flip her onto all fours, ass up. I spread her cheeks and tongue her from behind—rimming her tight hole while fingering her pussy.
“Oh fuck, Logan!” She’s grinding back, throaty moans spilling out. I add a third finger, stretching her, then place a bite on her ass cheek before replacing my fingers with my cock. I slam into her from behind, the chaise rocking, her tits swinging wild. I ram into her over and over, fucking her with everything I have as her cries climb octaves, each thrust wringing new noises from her that would make a priest blush. I grip her hips, using her body for leverage as I chase my own edge, and when I feel myself about to lose it I reach around, hand between her legs, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it with enough pressure that she comes apart all over again, screaming into the velvet cushion.
I let it crest, holding back by sheer force of will, until her whole body shudders and sags.
She collapses forward, boneless, a moan punched out of her as the last spasm racks her body. She tries to push back into me, greedy, but I pull out, fingers digging into her hips as I steady both of us, cock still hard and slick and desperate to finish. She twists to look at me, face smeared with sweat and want, hair wild across her cheeks.
“Logan,” she pants, breathless. “Come on—I need?—”
I slap her ass, startled by the sharp sound in the big empty room. “Not here,” I say, voice raw, barely human. “You’re not getting it until we’re in my bed.”
She whimpers, rocking her hips, “What? Why? I’m begging.”
I grab her by the waist and hoist her upright, pressing my lips to her ear—a low whisper that’s half growl, half promise. “Because I told you. I want this house to smell like you.”
She softens for a second, her skin pressed to mine, shaking her head in awe. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“Completely. For you.” I scoop her up again, carrying her like a prize to the library on the same floor—the room that was my sanctuary as a kid, lined with books that taught me how to think past the boredom and the pain. I want to take her in here. Want to show her the place I went when the rest of the house was a war zone. Let her mark it wild and loud with the messy truth that I finally have a life worth living—and a woman worth believing in.
The lights are off, moonlight painting the shelves in hard angles and velvet dark. The oak shelves of leather-bound books tower like silent witnesses—the same books I hid behind when I was twelve and my parents were screaming downstairs. The same desk where I taught myself to code because machines made more sense than people.
And now Audrey’s bent over it, panting, waiting for me.
The broken kid would never have believed this was possible.
“Beg for it again,” I command, shucking my jeans and teasing the head of my cock against her entrance.
She whimpers immediately, hips wriggling back into me. “Please,” she rasps, “Logan, please just—quit torturing me, I need—need you?—”
It’s the ‘need’ that does it. The way it comes out cracked and utterly honest, no armor, no wit, just want. I slide in a fraction, watching the curve of her ass tremble, her hands braced white-knuckled on the desk. She’s so tight it’s a miracle I can even move, but the wetness, god, she’s dripping for me, every inch I push in met with a greedy, desperate squeeze.
“You like begging?” I ask, panting as I hold her hips wide, keeping her open for my cock. “You want it that bad?”
“Yes—fuck yes—Logan, please, just fuck me, I can’t?—”
She breaks off in a gasp as I oblige, slamming into her in one hard motion. The wood rattles, books tremble on the shelves, and for a second it’s like every equation in my head collapses tozero—just the friction of her body, the slap of our hips, the way she sobs my name as I rail her against the desk.
I don’t let up. I fuck her hard, relentless, every thrust knocking the air out of both of us, until all the years of being unwanted and weird melt away and there’s just this pure, unfiltered need. Her hands scrabble over books and papers, trying to find purchase, and her mouth is garbled nonsense—sometimes my name, sometimes justplease, please, please,like a metronome of surrender.
“Is this what you wanted?” I don’t recognize my voice at all—ragged, hungry, barely holding it together. “My cock buried so deep in you I lose control?”
