He pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. And it's nothing like before. It’s nothing like the clumsy, rushed fumbling of every guy who came before him. This isdeliberate. This is a man who knows exactly what he's doing and wants me to feel every single second of it.
I can barely breathe.
"You okay?" His voice is strained, his arms trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Yeah," I gasp. "I've never felt this full."
"You're so fucking tight." He drops his forehead to mine. "You feel like you were made for me."
It's a line. It should sound like a line. But the way he says it, so raw, almost pained, makes it sound like so much more.
He starts to move.
Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that hit something inside me I didn't know existed. I've had sex before. I've had plenty of sex. But this is different.
This is what it'ssupposedto feel like.
Every guy before him was performing. Going through the motions they'd seen in porn, saying things they thought they should say. They were fuckingatme, not with me.
Cesar ispresent. His eyes on mine, watching every reaction. His hands everywhere—my hips, my breasts, tangled in my hair. He adjusts his angle when I gasp, speeds up when I moan, slows down when I'm getting too close.
He's playing me like an instrument he's spent years learning.
"There," I manage to cry out as we hit that perfect rythm. "Right there, don't stop!"
"I know." He grinds against me, hitting it again and again. "I've got you."
I'm climbing. Building toward something bigger than the first two, something I can feel gathering at the base of my spine.
Then he stops.
"Huh?"
He pulls out completely. Flips me over. And before I can protest, he's pulling me up and walking me toward the window.
"Cesar?"
"Hands on the glass."
The window. The floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the cliffs, the ocean, the road where my stalker left his note.
"But he might be out there."
"I hope he is." Cesar's voice is a growl against my ear as he presses my tits against the cold glass. "I hope he's out there right now with his little camera, watching. Let him see who you belong to. Let him see what he's never going to have."
He kicks my legs apart and slides back into me from behind.
The angle is deeper. I cry out, my hands splaying on the glass, and he doesn't give me time to adjust. He just startsfuckingme—hard, fast.
I can see our reflection in the glass. Me pressed against it, breasts flattened, mouth open. Him behind me, all that ink and muscle, his face twisted with something between pleasure and rage.
"This is what you needed, isn't it?" He's slamming into me, relentless. "Not some soft boy who asks permission for everything. A man who takes what he wants."
"Yes!"
"Say it louder."
"Yes! Fuck,yes!"
