His palm cups my pussy, hard, possessive. “Fuck, you’resoaked.” The smirk is pure predator, eyes glinting animalistic, pupils blown wide. Veins rope over the forearms that cage me, ink shifting with every flex of muscle.
He keeps my wrists crushed in one fist while the other frees his cock; it’s thick, flushed, pulsing. He lines up, with no warning, andthrusts. Thestretch is fire; his head falls back, throat corded, a guttural “Fuuck” ripping free. I arch, spine bowing off the forest floor, pleasure knifing through the burn.
His hips snap forward, ruthless, each slam driving the air from my lungs. The black shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat, buttons long gone. I see the hard cut of abs flexing. He’s a weapon forged in shadow and muscle.
“That’s it, take my cock.” His free hand brands my hip, dragging me onto him harder, deeper.
“Flynn!” My scream fractures the quiet, pleasure-pain sparking every raw nerve.
“Fuck, you feelperfect.” His fingers slide to my clit, circling with cruel precision. He releases my wrists only to shove my ruined sweater and bra up. His hot mouth closes over my nipple hard enough to draw blood. I rake my nails down his shoulders, fabric tearing, then under the shirt, scoring skin. Hewinces, growls, anddrivesharder.
“Mark me,” he snarls. I dig deeper, crescent moons blooming red on his back.
“Harder,” I beg, voice shredded, unrecognisable.
He straightens, towering, every thrust a claim. Skin slaps skin, obscene and loud, echoing through the trees. I feel himeverywhere,stretching, owning, ruining.
His thumb returns to my clit. “Look at me.Now.” Our eyes lock, and the sight detonates me. I comehard, body convulsing, back scraping twigs and dirt. He doesn’t stop, pounding through the aftershocks until I’m sobbing his name.
A dark, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. You’ll carry me inside you till tonight.” Two brutal thrusts, and he stills, cock pulsing, flooding me with heat.
He leans over me, his forearms braced on either side, holding his weight without crushing me, his breath still rough. “Fuck, you really know how to push me, trouble.”
I glance down at his collarbone where the marks of my bites are already blooming, his shoulder scraped raw where my nails dug into him. There’s blood. Real blood. My stomach flips.Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?
He catches the look on my face and smiles, wicked and soft all at once. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice roughened with amusement, “I like to be marked by you.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight with embarrassment. “I—” My voice barely makes it out. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
His laugh is low, dark, the sound vibrating through my chest as his thumb tips my chin up to meet his eyes. “Letting out your feral, more animal side isn’t wrong when we’re both into it. I want you to explore everything with me,” he says, gaze locked on mine like it’s a promise.
I nod, my face burning.
“You enjoy the pain?” I whisper, my cheeks going hotter. I try to shift beneath him, but he presses his hips down again, keeping me pinned with his cock still inside me.
“Depends.” He rolls his hips once, a slow, teasing grind that pulls a sharp sound from my throat. He’s still half-hard, thick and insistent.
“If it’s from you?” he continues, voice low and possessive, “Yes. From someone else? I’ll cut their heads off and feed them to the dogs.”
“Flynn…” I gasp as he rocks into me again.
“If I didn’t have somewhere to be,” he mutters with a scoff, “I’d fuck you again right here.”
He moves back onto his knees, pulling out of me, and I feel the slow drip of warmth between my thighs until he catches it, his fingers pressing in, dragging it back inside with dark satisfaction.
“Don’t want you losing a drop,” he murmurs with a crooked smirk.
He stands, and my eyes can’t help but follow the way his muscles shift under the dappled light, the sun casting golden flecks through the trees that dance across his skin. His hair glows like old whisky, and his green eyes gleam with mischief, like he’s already planning something he shouldn’t be. Like a boy who swore he didn’t peek at the Christmas gifts.
“What?” I ask, tugging my leggings back into place, cheeks flushed. He offers his hand, and I take it, pulling myself up on trembling legs.
“Just admiring what’s mine,” he says with a casual shrug as he starts walking.
“Don’t start,” I grumble. “I’m not yours. You’re not even my—”
I clamp my mouth shut before the cringe can land.Oh no.
“Boyfriend?” he finishes for me, clearly amused. He nods, utterly unbothered. “I consider myself more of an owner.”
