"No."
"I want to taste you."
"No."
He climbs over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. His cock brushes against my inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, and I buck my hips trying to get him inside me.
"Desperate little thing," he mutters, but there's affection in it.
He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a condom. I watch him roll it on, mesmerized by his hands on his own cock, the way he grips himself.
Then he's positioned at my entrance, the thick head pressing against my pussy, and I'm so wet he could slide in easily but he doesn't. He holds there, making me feel how big he is, how much he's going to stretch me.
"Nico, please…"
He pushes in with one brutal thrust.
I scream. He's so thick, stretching me beyond what I thought I could take. The burn of it, the fullness, it's perfect and too much and not enough.
His jaw clenches, tendons standing out in his neck. "Christ, the way you feel around me." The words sound like they're being torn from his throat.
He withdraws until just the tip remains, then drives back into me with enough force to make the bed frame protest against the wall. Each thrust is calculated, relentless, finding depths I didn't know existed. I feel myself building toward something impossible so soon after the last.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my ear, voice like gravel. "Take me, just like that."
His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is devastating. I'm babbling now: his name, please, God, fuck, yes, a stream of consciousness as he fucks me with absolute precision.
But that's the problem. Even as he pounds into me, even as his cock hits that perfect spot over and over, even as his thumb works my clit perfectly, his face is controlled. Focused. Like he's performing a task.
The third orgasm builds anyway. My pussy clenches around him, my whole body going taut as a bow.
"Come," he orders. "Come on my cock."
I do. I shatter completely, my pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock, my whole body convulsing. Tears stream down my face from the intensity, and I'm sobbing his name, begging for something I can't even name.
Through it all, he watches me with those hazel eyes. Studying. But never losing control.
He pulls out.
I'm lying there destroyed, cum-drunk and trembling, when reality hits: he didn't come.
His cock is still rock hard, the condom still on but empty. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, his whole body rigid with unspent need.
"You didn't…"
"Rest."
"But you're still hard. Let me suck you, let me…"
"No."
He climbs off the bed, removes the condom efficiently, pulls on his sweatpants over his still-hard cock. The outline of it through the fabric is obscene.
"Where are you going?"
"Shower."
The bathroom door closes. The lock clicks.
