She takes me in her mouth.
No teasing. No warm-up. Just wet heat and suction and the sudden, pressure of her throat working around me. My hands fist in the sheets.
"Holy—Jane—"
She pulls back. Gasps. Takes me again. Deeper this time—her jaw stretching around me, eyes watering but determined. She's not asking permission. She's not looking for instruction.
She'scommandingthis.
Her hands grip my thighs for leverage. Her head bobs—rhythmic, relentless—and she hollows her cheeks on the upstroke, sucks hard enough that my spine tries to leave my body.
"That's—you don't have to—"
She pulls off just enough to speak. Her lips are swollen. Her voice is rough. "I want to. Stop talking."
Then she takes me again. Deeper. Harder. The vibration of her moan around me shoots straight through my nervous system like a power surge.
I thread my fingers through her hair. Not controlling. Just holding on while she destroys me.
She takes me so deep I hit the back of her throat and I feel the constriction, the flex of muscles she's still learning to use, and my vision whites out at the edges.
"Jane—I'm going to—"
She doesn't stop. Doesn't pull back.
I'm right there. Right on the edge. About to—
She pulls off. Gasps. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
Then stands up. Points at the wall.
"There. Now."
"What—"
"I want you to take me against that wall.Hard." Her chin lifts. The bracelet glints on her wrist. "Don't make me ask twice."
I stand. Lift her. Pin her against the wall in one movement—the same wall where I caged her twenty minutes ago, but now there's nothing between us. No fabric. No pretense. Just skin and need and the desperate geometry of two bodies trying to fuse.
Her legs wrap around my waist. She reaches between us, guides me to her entrance. Her eyes are blazing.
"Do it."
I thrust into her. One stroke. Burying myself completely.
She cries out—loud, sharp, cracking against the walls of the casita—and her nails rake down my back.
I pull out and drive back in. The wall shudders behind her.
"Yes—likethat—"
I'm holding her up with one arm locked under her thigh, the other hand braced against the wall.
Taking her with everything I have. Every thrust drives her back against the plaster. Desperate. Primal.
The controlled discipline that's defined me for three years—gone. Burned off. Replaced by something I stopped trying to control eight days ago.
I shift my grip. Free one hand. Reach between us. Find her clit.
