"Tell me if it's not."
"It's okay. It's—" I lost the ability to form words as his hand slid beneath me, finding my still-sensitive clit and rubbing in slow circles.
I was face down on the bed, completely at his mercy, and instead of feeling vulnerable, I felt... free. Like I could let go of everything—the fear, the control, the constant vigilance—and just feel.
He worked me back up slowly, his fingers circling and stroking while his mouth explored my neck, my shoulders, the curve of my spine. I could feel him hard against my ass, the evidence of his restraint, and I pushed back against him, wanting more.
"Greedy," he murmured, but there was approval in his voice.
I heard the rustle of fabric, the crinkle of a wrapper, and then he was positioning himself behind me, lifting my hips, spreading my thighs wider.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes."
He thrust into me in one smooth stroke.
The angle was different like this—deeper, more intense. I cried out into the pillow as he filled me completely, stretching me in ways that bordered on painful but didn't quite cross the line.
He gave me a moment to adjust, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I could feel him trembling with the effort of holding still, and the knowledge that he was as desperate as I was made something hot and satisfied unfurl in my chest.
"Move," I said. "Please move."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He started slow—long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive inch of me. Each thrust pushed me forward on the bed, and I braced my hands against the headboard, pushing back to meet him.
"Harder," I gasped.
He obliged. His hips snapped against me, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. One hand left my hip to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back, and the slight sting of it only added to the pleasure building in my core.
"You feel incredible," he growled. "So tight. So wet. Like you were made for me."
I couldn't respond. Could barely think. There was only sensation—his body driving into mine, his hand in my hair, the relentless pressure against that spot inside me that made everything go white at the edges.
He released my hair and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me up so my back was against his chest. The new angle was even deeper, even more intense, and I moaned as he continued to thrust into me from behind.
His hand found my breast, squeezing, pinching my nipple. His other hand slid between my legs, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing in tight circles.
"Come for me," he said against my ear. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
The words, combined with his fingers and his relentless thrusts, pushed me over the edge. I shattered in his arms, my inner walls clamping down on him, his name tearing from my throat in a broken cry.
He fucked me through it, his rhythm growing erratic as my orgasm triggered his own. I felt him pulse inside me, heard him groan my name, and then he was collapsing forward, taking me with him, both of us sprawled across the ruined sheets.
We lay there for a long moment, tangled together, both of us breathing hard. I could feel his heart hammering against my back, keeping time with my own.
Eventually, he rolled to the side, pulling me with him so we were facing each other. His hand came up to brush the hair from my face, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I think so." I laughed, a shaky sound. "I'm not sure I can feel my legs."
"That's a good sign."
"Is it?"
"It means I did my job."
