His mouth is wet heat. He takes me to the root in a single, devastating stroke, his lips sealing around me with a suction that makes my vision white out. My hips buck forward involuntarily, driving deeper into the slick pressure of his throat.
My vision whites out at the edges. My hips buck forward involuntarily, driving deeper. He takes it—his throat opening, his jaw working, his hands gripping my bare hips with a force that anchors me in place.
"Fuck—" The word tears out of me. My hand tightens in his hair. I pull, trying to control the depth, but he resists. He pulls back—slow, dragging, the suction increasing as he withdraws until only the head is between his lips—and then drives forward again.
The rhythm he establishes is not gentle. It’s brutal. Wet, fast, the obscene sounds of saliva and friction filling the quiet studio.
I look down.
His eyes are closed. His lashes are dark against the flush on his cheekbones. His mouth is stretched around me, lips slick and swollen.
The image—the Reaper on his knees, servicing me—short-circuits my brain.
I watch his head move. The muscles in his jaw flex with each stroke. Spit runs down his chin, dripping onto his shirt. He doesn't wipe it. He’s beyond that. He operates in the animal register where fluids are currency and mess is the point.
He pulls off. Gasping. His mouth is wrecked—lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting his lower lip to me. He looks up. His eyes are wild—green gone dark, the intelligence replaced by something older.
"Turn around," he commands.
Two words. The command register.
My body responds before my mind can process. I turn. I brace my hands on the drafting table. The wood is cold and smooth under my palms. I lean forward, presenting myself.
Behind me, I hear him stand. I hear the clink of his belt. The rasp of his zipper.
His hand runs down my spine. Rough. Possessive. From the nape of my neck to the base, a single unbroken stroke that maps the territory he’s about to claim.
His fingers find my hole. Dry. The contact is electric, a spark against oversensitized nerves.
"Wait," I manage. The logistics matter even when the brain is offline. "There's... Rory's cabinet. Linseed oil."
He’s gone for four seconds. I hear the cabinet open. The cap unscrew.
Then he’s back. His chest presses against my back. The heat of his skin radiates through the thin layer of air between us.
His fingers return. Slick now. Coated in the viscous oil.
He pushes one finger inside me.
The stretch burns. My hands clench on the table edge. He isn't careful. He’s efficient. His finger works in and out with a mechanical purpose. A second finger joins the first. The burn deepens. I push back into it, seeking the grounding pain.
"Harder," I hiss through clenched teeth. "Don't be gentle. I didn't ask for gentle."
His fingers scissor. The stretch intensifies—a sharp, singing pain that radiates through my pelvis and converts into pleasure so intense my forehead drops to the table.
He withdraws. His slick hand grips my hip. His other hand guides himself. I feel the blunt, thick pressure of him against me—wider than his fingers, hotter, insistent.
He pushes in.
The pain is immediate and enormous. The stretch of him splitting me open is a sensation that exists beyond pleasure or pain—it is invasion. It is possession. It is the physical reality of a body being opened by another body.
My fingers claw the drafting table. The wood groans. My jaw locks.
He sinks deeper. Inch by inch. The oil eases the friction but doesn't eliminate it. The drag of him inside me is a sensation I feel in my teeth.
His hips meet my ass. He is fully seated—thick and pulsing and so deep I can feel him in my stomach.
He pauses. One breath. Two.
