“I don’t care,” I breathe. “I want to feel you stretch me. I need it to hurt a little.”
He circles my clit once, teasing, then pins my gaze with his. “Eyes on me the whole time I slide in, or I stop. Understand?”
I nod frantically, already trembling.
He lines up. The blunt head nudges my entrance, and he pushes—just the tip—and the burn is immediate. He’s too big, and I’m too dry, and it’s perfect. I whimper, hips jerking.
He pulls back, sits on his heels, and spits right onto my pussy. The wet sound makes me flush hotter; his palm cracks down, a sharp slap against my clit that makes me jolt and cry out.
“That hurt!” I squeal, half laughing, half shocked.
“And it made you soaked,” he says, grinning like the devil he is. He spreads the wetness with two thick fingers and lines back up. “Let’s try again.”
He slaps me once more, harder, the sting blooming into liquid heat, and before I can catch my breath, he slams home in one brutal thrust. My back arches off the bed, a broken moan tearing from my throat. He bottoms out, so deep I feel him in my soul, and holds there.
Moonlight carves shadows across his abs, every muscle carved and flexing as he breathes. His shoulders look impossibly wide from this angle, veins standing out along his forearms, throat, even the one that snakes down into the V of his hips. The skull on his chest ripples when he shifts. He looks like sin made flesh, like something sent to ruin me and save me in the same breath.
I try to close my eyes just for a second, to feel, but his voice lashes across the room.
“No. Eyes open. On me.”
Another sharp slap lands on my clit, and I scream, the pleasure-pain shooting straight up my spine. Before the sound dies, he’s moving again, pulling out and driving back in so hard the headboard cracks against the wall, and just like that, the knot in my stomach unravels. The knives fall quiet. There is only him, his body, his heat, his cruel hands, his perfect cock, filling every empty place inside me until there’s no room left for anything but Flynn, my husband.
His thrusts are hard, precise, calculated to keep me teetering right on the brink. Every time my body locks up, thighs trembling, breath catching, he stills completely, smirks down at me, and waits until the wave recedes; then he starts again, slow and merciless.
“Are you,” I pant, voice shredded, “edging me?”
He laughs, low and dark, the sound curling straight between my legs. “Damn right I am.” Pride drips from every syllable. I want to smack that beautiful, infuriating face.
“I’ll keep you right here,” he growls, “until you’re so fucking spent your pretty little head can’t spin another nightmare.”
“How did you know I was,” I start, but he slams in so deep the words fracture into a moan. He leans over me, grips my chin hard, forcing my mouth open. His eyes burn, wild and possessive, and then he spits onto my tongue. The raw dominance of it makes me whimper like the shameless slut I am for him.
“Swallow,” he orders.
I do. Instantly. The taste of him slides down my throat while his huge hand wraps around my neck and squeezes. Breathing turns into fire, heartbeat roaring in my ears, but it’s not fear making me shake. It’s trust. It’s adrenaline. It’s the way his thick forearm flexes, veins standing out like ropes under the ink as he controls every ounce of air I’m allowed.
He fucks me harder, cock dragging over that perfect spot inside until my eyes roll back. The pressure on my throat turns the pleasure razor-sharp. Just when black spots dance at the edges of my vision, he loosens his grip, slow and careful.
“Small breaths, trouble,” he murmurs, thumb stroking my pulse. “Good girl.”
His other hand slides between us, two rough fingers circling my clit lazily while I suck in tiny, desperate sips of air. My back arches off the bed.
“Flynn, please, I need to come,” I beg, voice cracking.
“I know you do,” he teases and stops again. My whole body slumps, every muscle pulled bowstring tight, mind floating in thick, frustrated fog.
He climbs off the bed, all long lines and carved muscle, and digs into his duffel. When he turns back, moonlight catches the wicked grin on his face and the silver string of ben-wa balls dangling from his fingers.
My brows pull together. Before I can speak, he flips me onto my stomach and yanks my hips up until I’m on all fours, ass in the air like an offering.
“Flynn,” Panic licks up my spine.
“Relax.” His palm cracks across my ass, the sting blooming hot and perfect. “I’m not fucking your ass tonight.” A dark chuckle. “Well… not with my cock.”
Cold lube drips between my cheeks. I gasp at the shock of it, then moan when the first ball presses in. He works it slow, letting me feel every inch of stretch, every second of relief when it settles inside. Then the second. The third. My arms shake, forehead pressed to the sheets.
“Please, Flynn.” I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore.
