"I'm going to make even better sounds when you're inside me."
He grins. "I kind of like the way you think."
He finally positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. Our eyes lock as he begins to push in—slowly, so slowly I want to scream. The initial stretch is intense, my body opening to accommodate his size.
I gasp as he breaches me, the thick head sliding past that first ring of resistance. He's big and the stretch borders on overwhelming, that perfect edge between pleasure and too much. Inch by deliberate inch, he fills me. I feel every ridge, every vein as he sinks deeper. My inner walls flutter and clench around him, trying to adjust to the intrusion.
"Breathe," he murmurs, voice strained with the effort of going slow.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath. I exhale shakily and he slides deeper, the fullness stealing my thoughts. When he finally bottoms out, completely seated inside me, we both freeze. The sensation is overwhelming—stretched and filled and claimed in a way that makes my toes curl.
"Okay?" His voice is strained with the effort of holding still.
"Perfect. Don't stop."
"You feel amazing," he groans. "So tight and wet."
He pulls out almost completely—I feel the drag of every inch, the emptiness threatening—then drives back in with one smooth, deep thrust that punches the air from my lungs. The fullness returns in a rush, hitting places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each stroke is controlled and measured, designed to let me feel every ridge and vein as he fills me. The drag of his cock against my inner walls sends electricity racing up my spine. He's watching my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of my eyelashes, learning exactly what I need.
His muscles flex with each thrust, abs contracting, biceps cording where he braces himself above me. Sweat gleams on his skin. A drop falls from his jaw onto my collarbone and I feel it slide down between my breasts. The visual of him working above me—all that controlled power focused entirely on my pleasure—is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation.
"Harder," I demand.
"Bossy."
All I can do is moan in response.
He chuckles, low and dark, and the sound vibrates through both of us. Then he complies, pulling back and slamming home with enough force to make the headboard hit the wall. The rhythm shifts from slow and controlled to powerful and relentless. Each thrust drives deeper, harder, claiming me completely.
The change is overwhelming. My head falls back against the pillow, mouth open on a silent scream as he pounds into me. The wet sounds of our bodies coming together fills the room, obscene and perfect. I can feel him everywhere—stretching me, filling me, owning me with each brutal stroke.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. The angle shifts and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside me with devastating precision.
"There!" I cry out, nails raking down his back. "Right there, don't stop?—"
He doesn't. He locks onto that angle and drives into me with relentless precision, hitting that perfect spot over and over until I can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel. Each powerful thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward from my core, making my thighs tremble and my inner muscles flutter around him.
The tension coils tighter with each impact, a spring wound to its breaking point. My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending firing at once. I'm gasping, moaning, making sounds I've never made before. The wet slide of him inside me, the stretch and fullness, the grinding pressure against my clit with each downstroke—it's too much and not enough all at once.
Sweat slicks our skin. My nails dig harder into his back, probably drawing blood, but I can't make myself let go. I needthe anchor. I'm drowning in sensation and he's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
"Come for me," he commands, voice rough and strained. "I want to feel you."
The pressure coils impossibly tight, every muscle in my body tensing as I hover on that razor's edge. His cock drives deep with devastating accuracy. One more thrust. Two. Then?—
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me with brutal intensity. My back arches off the bed, spine bowing as pleasure explodes outward from my core in waves that steal my breath, my vision, my ability to form coherent thought. My inner muscles clamp down around him in rhythmic pulses, gripping and releasing as my body tries to pull him deeper.
A scream tears from my throat—his name, maybe, or just sound. I can't tell. White-hot ecstasy floods my nervous system, making every nerve ending sing. My thighs shake violently. My nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks. The pleasure keeps cresting, wave after relentless wave, and I'm completely at its mercy.
Above me, Thatcher groans deep in his chest. I feel his rhythm falter, his control finally slipping as my clenching heat milks him. His hips stutter, losing that measured precision.
"Gwen—"
Three more deep, powerful thrusts and he's gone. His control finally shatters completely. He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock swells inside me. I feel every pulse, every throb as he comes, heat flooding deep into my core in waves. His whole body goes rigid above me, every muscle locked tight, corded and trembling with the force of his release.
