“I promise,” I said.
“Good boy.”
Those two words sent electricity crackling through my veins. I’d written characters saying them a hundred times, had fantasized about hearing them directed at me, but nothing compared to the reality. Nothing compared to Griff’s deep timbre wrapping around the praise and delivering it straight to my core.
I was trapped in his snare with no hope, nor desire, to escape.
His hands made quick work of my remaining clothes. Soon I was bare before him, exposed and vulnerable in the best possible way. His eyes roamed over me with an appreciation that made me feel beautiful rather than self-conscious. The muscles I showcased were nothing like his, honed from physical activity, while mine were simply due to lack of meat on my bones. I was scrawny, where he was brawny, athletic.
“Perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “You’re absolutely perfect.”
I wanted to argue, to point out every flaw and imperfection, but the words died in my throat when his mouth found my neck. He kissed and nipped at the sensitive skin there, marking me as his. At least for tonight.
“This,” he nipped at my throat, “drives me wild. You say so much, with so little movement.”
His weight settled over me, pressing me into the mattress, and I finally understood what I’d been chasing in all those stories. This feeling of being consumed, wanted, desired. Needed. This was what I’d been searching for. The fantasies that I spilled from ink to paper.
His hand slid down my chest, deliberate and slow, mapping every inch of skin. When he reached my hip, his fingers dug in just enough to make me gasp.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “I want to hear every sound you make.”
My back arched involuntarily as his mouth traveled lower, across my collarbone, down to my chest. Each kiss was a brand, each touch a promise of what was to come. The contrast between his gentleness and his strength was intoxicating. With the strength of his hands alone, he could break me in half, yet he was as gentle as a dove when he placed featherlight kisses over my body.
“Griff,” I whimpered, not even sure what I was asking for.
“I know, little rabbit. I know what you need.” His hand moved between my legs, and I nearly came undone right there. “But we’re going to take this slow. I told you, I need to get you ready.”
He reached over to his nightstand, retrieving a bottle I recognized immediately. My heart hammered in my chest as reality crashed over me again. This was happening. This was really happening. With Griff. With that monster cock he had between his legs.
“Eyes on me,” he commanded when my gaze started to drift. “I want to see your face when my cock fills your tight hole.”
I obeyed, locking my eyes with his as his slicked fingers began their careful exploration. The initial pressure made me tense, but his free hand stroked my thigh soothingly.
“Breathe,” he said. “Relax for me.” His breath ghosted over my skin.
Griff worked with patience I hadn’t expected from someone so imposing, watching my every reaction, adjusting his movements based on my responses. When he found that spot inside me, my vision went white. My cock jerked, leaking pre-cum that dribbled onto my stomach.
“There it is,” he rumbled, satisfaction thick in his voice. “You’re doing so well for me, Taylor. So perfect.”
The praise made my head spin. Every nerve ending felt electrified, hypersensitive to his touch. He worked me open with maddening patience, adding another finger when my body was ready, never rushing, despite the obvious strain in his own breathing.
“Please,” I finally gasped, not even sure what I was begging for anymore. Everything felt too much and not enough all at once. Like my heart might burst from my body, flying apart all at once and coming back together in a culmination of exquisite torture.
“Please what?” His fingers curled inside me again, making stars burst behind my eyelids. “Use your words, little rabbit.”
“I need—” My voice broke as he repeated the motion. “I need you. Please, Griff.”
He withdrew his fingers, and I whimpered at the loss. But then I felt him positioning himself, the blunt pressure against me making my breath catch. I’d seen the beast of a cock he carried around. I’d wanted to feel it on my hand, on my tongue. The sheer size of him was going to rip me apart.
“Look at me,” he ordered again, and I hadn’t even realized my eyes had closed. When I opened them, his expression was intense, almost reverent. “I’ve got you.”
The first press forward stole the air from my lungs. He moved slowly, giving me time to adjust, but even with all his preparation, the stretch was overwhelming. My hands scrabbled for purchase against his shoulders, fingers digging into solid muscle. His cock was impossibly thick, and I strained at the intrusion.
“Breathe,” he reminded me again, holding still. “You’re doing so good. Taking me so well.” He canted his hips, pressing deeper.
I tried to relax, tried to remember how to breathe. Gradually, the burning sensation faded into something else entirely—a fullness that felt like completion.
“Okay?” he asked, though I could see the effort it took him to remain still, muscles trembling with restraint.
