"I know." My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. Wrecked. Ruined.
He strips off his shirt. I've seen his body before, but it hits differently now. In the low light, every scar and ridge is cast in shadow. The thick muscles of his chest and shoulders. The hard planes of his stomach. The V of his hips disappearing into his waistband. My mouth waters.
He unbuckles his belt, watching me watch him. Sheds the pants, the boxer briefs. And then he's naked above me, and I have a moment to appreciate the full reality of him before coherent thought becomes a luxury I can no longer afford.
He's big. Proportional to the rest of him, which means intimidating. Thick, hard, already slick at the tip. I reach for him. He lets me this time, and when my fingers wrap around him, his head drops, chin to chest, and he exhales through his teeth. A harsh, ragged sound. The sound of control fraying.
I stroke him once. Twice. He grabs my wrist and pins it back to the mattress.
"If you keep doing that, this ends before it starts."
I grin up at him. "That fragile?"
"That hungry. Ready?"
I nod.
He lines himself up against me, the tip pressing at my entrance, and pauses. One hand braced beside my head. The other gripping my hip, tilting me upward.
"Look at me," he says again.
I meet his eyes.
He pushes in. Slow. So slow I can feel every inch, the stretch and the fullness and the deep, aching pressure of him filling me completely. My lips part. My nails dig into his shoulders. When he's fully seated, both of us breathing hard, he holds still.
"You okay?" he asks, and his voice is barely recognizable. Rough and cracked and shaking.
"Yes." I roll my hips, pulling him deeper, and we both groan. "Move."
He moves.
Not fast. Long, deep strokes that drag out and push back in, each one hitting a place inside me that sends sparks across my vision. His hips roll against mine in a rhythm that feels practiced, measured, each thrust deliberate. He's watching my face, reading every reaction, ading his angle until he finds the one that makes my eyes roll back.
"There," I gasp. "Right there. Harder."
He braces both hands beside my head and drives into me harder. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and obscene. My legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the new angle forces him deeper. I moan and he swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me while he fucks me, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hips.
The pressure builds again. Faster this time, layered on top of the first orgasm, my body already sensitized and greedy. He feels it, feels me tightening around him, and his rhythm falters.
"Not yet," he grits out. "Not yet, I'm not done with you."
He pulls out and flips me onto my stomach before I can protest. His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back, and his mouth finds my ear.
"On your knees."
I comply. Shaking, dripping, already gone. I rise onto my hands and knees and feel him behind me, his chest against my back, his cock pressing against me. He pushes in again, and from this angle he's impossibly deep. I bury my face in the pillow and scream.
His hand stays in my hair. The other grips my hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into flesh, holding me exactly where he wants me. He sets a pace that's merciless. Deep, punishing strokes that slam into me with enough force to rock the bed frame. The headboard hits the wall in a steady, damning rhythm.
"Mine," he growls against the back of my neck. "Say it."
"Yours." The word comes out strangled. "I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Leone. Yours. Only yours."
His hand slides from my hip to my front, fingers finding my clit, and he rubs me in tight, fast circles while he drives into me from behind. The dual sensation is too much. I can't breathe. I can't think. The world narrows to his body and mine and the devastating friction between them.
