Ransom kept hold of my hand, but his other crept down, gripped my thigh, and pulled my leg up to his hip. The implication was clear: round two was not optional.
He rolled onto his knees, hauling me up with him. I let him manhandle me, too tired to protest, but my cock was already swelling again. The air was thick with sweat and the faint, sharp smell of lube and latex. He stroked himself a few times, then pressed the head against my ass, rubbing slow and deliberate.
He held me open with both hands, thumbs digging into the flesh at the curve of my ass. “Want it?” he asked, the words more like a threat than a question.
I didn’t just want it; I was desperate. The stretch, the burn, the feeling of being filled and used. I’d never known I could need anything like this. My mouth moved before my brain could catch up.
“Please,” I said, and it didn’t sound like me at all. “I need you. Now.”
He grinned, a flash of teeth, and lined himself up. This time he didn’t bother to go slow. He drove in with one long, relentless stroke, pushing past every line I’d ever drawn for myself.
The fullness was overwhelming. He was bigger than I remembered, or maybe I’d just never let myself feel it all before. My body tried to clench around him, but he fucked right through the resistance, each thrust punching a sharp gasp out of my lungs. He leaned over me, one hand flat on the bed by my head, the other gripping my hip so tight I knew there’d be fingerprints.
“Look at me,” he said, voice hoarse.
I forced my eyes open, found his face inches from mine, sweat darkening his hair, jaw clenched with effort. His arms bracketed me, tattooed and thick, muscles flexing as he pounded into me. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to.
He fucked me with a purpose, not just for his own pleasure but to prove a point: that I could be broken, that I could want this, that I’d let him take me apart and put me back together in whatever shape he chose.
He changed angles, bracing both hands on my hips, pulling me up so his cock hit deeper, harder, driving right against my prostate. The first time he nailed it, my back arched clean off the mattress and I yelled, shameless, the sound bouncing off the walls.
He did it again. And again. Each time, the pleasure built until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but clutch at the sheets and ride the wave.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “I want to see you come for me.”
I wrapped a fist around my cock, already slick and weeping. The friction, combined with the brutal pace of his thrusts, was too much. I stroked once, twice, and then the world fractured. Icame in thick, hot pulses, striping my stomach and his hand and the rumpled bed beneath us. The orgasm ripped through me so hard I thought I might pass out.
He held me through it, fucking me right through the climax, never slowing down. The aftershocks made my whole body tremble. He was relentless, driving into me until I could feel him swell inside the condom. He fucked in deep, once, twice, then shuddered all over and emptied himself with a low, guttural sound that sounded a lot like my name.
He collapsed over me, his weight crushing me into the bed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay right there, ruined and full and pinned under the only man who’d ever made me want to give up control.
The sweat cooled on our bodies, turning sticky. I could hear our breathing, loud and irregular, like the world had narrowed to just our lungs and the pounding in my ears.
He rolled off, but didn’t go far. He pulled me to him, spooned me up against his chest, arms wrapped tight. His heartbeat thudded in my back.
For a long time, there was nothing but the dark, and the sound of us, and the smell of sex and skin and surrender.
I should have been ashamed. I should have been terrified that I’d just let a man half the town called a degenerate own me so completely. But all I felt was peace. Not the brittle, fragile kind I’d pieced together with rules and routines, but the real thing: quiet, heavy, solid as a rock.
Ransom’s hand found mine under the sheets. He squeezed it, once, then again, like a promise.
I didn’t let go.
It was the first night in years I didn’t dream about the job, or the ex, or the slow grind of years closing in. All I dreamed about was the warmth of a body pressed to mine, the grip of a hand inthe dark, the sound of someone breathing, alive and real, in the space I’d spent so long insulating against the world.
I woke with Ransom’s arm flung across my chest, his mouth half-open, his leg tangled between mine like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go. The clock said 3:24. Outside, the world was silent. In here, the only movement was the steady rise and fall of Ransom’s back, and the shiver that ran down my arms every time he exhaled against my neck.
I lay there and cataloged every new sensation: the slick mess between my thighs, the dull ache at the base of my spine, the bite marks on my neck and chest, the strange, satisfied looseness in my limbs.
My skin was a roadmap of everything he’d done to me, and every nerve ending buzzed with the knowledge that it could happen again, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe never. I wanted it again.
That was the worst part.
Ransom’s hand drifted in his sleep, fingers tracing shapes on my ribs, then my belly, then curling tight like he meant to hold me together. It sent a scatter of goosebumps up my sides. I tried to suppress it, but he shifted closer, mumbled something I couldn’t catch, and nuzzled my jaw before relaxing into unconsciousness again.
I should have rolled away, re-established the distance, put a pillow between us and rebuilt the boundaries I’d spent years making airtight. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to.
Instead, I brought my own hand up and touched the line of his arm, careful, like I might spook him. The skin was hot, the tattoos rough and raised under my fingertips. I traced the river valley on his bicep, followed the ink up to his shoulder, memorized the way it curved and split like a map of everywhere I’d ever wanted to go but never let myself.
