“Chris.” It comes out strangled, but I’m grinning. “Jesus?—”
His hand tightens. Cuts off the rest.
“Did I say you could talk?”
A wrongness I can’t name tinges his voice. The words are hot, dirty talk I’d normally lean into, but the delivery is off. Too flat. Too even. Like he’s reading from a script.
“Chris.” I try to keep it light. Playful. “Hey?—”
His arm tightens across my chest, pinning me harder against him. Not an embrace anymore. A restraint.
Okay. That’s—okay. We’re playing. This is playing.
Except my gut isn’t buying it.
“Babe. Come on.” I try to turn my head, catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder, but the angle’s wrong. I can’t see anything but ceiling. “Talk to me.”
Nothing. Just that mechanical rhythm, his breath harsh and regular against my ear. Too regular. Like he’s counting reps at the gym. Like this is a task he’s completing. And every stroke hits me in a way that makes me not want to care. But the sense that something is off doesn’t disappear.
My gut says wrong. My cock says more.
In the window’s reflection, I let my gaze drift up from our bodies to our faces.
And every alarm in my body goes off at once.
His eyes are open but empty. He’s looking through me. Past me. At something that isn’t in this room, something I can’t see. His expression is slack in a way that makes my stomach lurch even as my cock twitches between my thighs.
“Chris.” Louder now. The word scrapes past his grip on my throat. “Chris, slow down.”
His grip on my throat shifts, fingers spreading wider. Squeezes.
I can’t breathe. Can’t get enough air to speak. The edges of my vision swim gray, and he’s still fucking me, still hitting that spot, and my cock is still hard, the fucking traitor, and I’m terrified and my body doesn’t care. My body is chasing the high while my mind screams.
“Touch yourself.” A command. “Make yourself come.”
My hand moves. I don’t decide to move it. It just goes, wrapping around my cock like someone else is driving. I’m still hard. Still leaking. The stimulation is relentless, and my hips are rocking back into his thrusts even as my throat burns under his grip.
I don’t want this.
I do want this.
I can’t think. There’s not enough oxygen and too much sensation and the man inside me isn’t Chris anymore.
In the window’s reflection, I watch his face. Watch for any flicker. Any sign that he’s still in there.
Nothing. Just that dead stare and the mechanical pump of his hips.
“That’s it.” His voice is someone else’s. Something learned, practiced, pulled from somewhere I can’t follow. “Good. Just like that. Take what I give you.”
My eyes burn. Tears or oxygen deprivation, I can’t tell. My hand keeps moving on my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure is building despite everything. My body doesn’t know the difference between this and what we were doing ten minutes ago. My body just knows it feels good.
I’m going to come. I’m going to come while he’s gone, while someone else wears his face, and I can’t stop it.
“Come for me.” His hand tightens. Stars burst across my vision. “Now.”
The orgasm tears through me. I spill over my fist, my whole body clamping down around him. He groans, the first real sound he’s made, and buries himself deep, pulsing inside me.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
