I’d press her back against the tree, rough bark biting through her dress into her skin. One hand would pin both wrists above her head while the other slid up her thigh. My fingers would graze her pussy, tracing heat and slick with just enough pressure to tease. A whisper of touch—enough to drive her mad. Not enough to give her anything. Not yet.
She wouldn’t plead. No, not her.
She’d curse at me. Buck against my hand. Dare me with her eyes and grind down against my palm, pretending she’s the one daring me. She’d fight me the whole time because that makes her come alive. It makes her burn.
And God, that would only make it better.
It won’t be gentle when I fuck her against that tree. Nor will it be slow. It'll be savage, deep, and unrelenting. The kind of fucking that leaves bruises and rewires instincts. The kind she'll feel long after she tries to convince herself she can walk away from me.
I’ll shove her dress up around her waist and bare that sweet, soaked cunt like it was gift-wrapped for me. I’ll hold her wrists a moment longer, pinning them high, then release them to make it interesting. I want the fight. I want her to buck and twist. Andwhen she does, I’ll slide my hand to her throat, gripping tight enough to remind her who’s in control.
I won’t whisper or soothe. I’ll growl filthy promises against her skin.
She won’t be ready. Not for the stretch or for the force.
I’ll slide into her with a savage thrust that knocks the air from her lungs. Her body will seize, clench, and melt around me. She'll try to brace herself, but there is nothing to hold on to except the way I fuck her.
She’ll gasp, curse, maybe fight it just to feel the edge, to see what I do when she pushes back.
And what I'll do is ruin her the way she asked me to.
I’ll fuck her until her legs give out, until the only thing holding her up is my hand around her throat—tight enough to make her tremble, steady enough for her to lean into. I’ll drive into her with precision that proves she was made for this. For me.
I’ll pull my name from her lips in broken sobs and ragged cries, make her beg to come… then beg again, because she knows how much I fucking love it.
Her pussy will tighten around my cock, clinging with a need that won’t let go, as if it’s found the only place it was ever meant to hold. And when I feel her tremble, I’ll bury myself deeper, groan into her shoulder, and come so hard, cum will drip out of her for hours.
Then I'll pull back, slick and spent, and drag my fingers through the mess I made between her thighs.
It’ll be brutal.
It’ll be worship.
Then I’ll lean in, mouth to her ear, and remind her of the promise she made without even knowing it.
You said you wanted a man obsessed with you, I'll say, lips brushing her skin, my hand still snug around her throat.Well, now you’ve got one.
Fuck, I’m hard.
The women shift, laughter flaring, and the dark fantasyshatters. They’re on their feet now, collecting handbags, and preparing to leave.
“Hey, Laurette. Text us when you get home.”
She giggles. “Only if I don’t end up somewhere better.”
They all laugh, and I freeze.
Laurette.
Her name ripples through me, soft and haunting.
Laurette.
Her name fits her. French silk wrapped in Southern sin with grit, grace and a bit of hellfire.
I watch the way she walks, the sway of her full hips, the curve of her shoulders, the quiet command in the way she carries herself. She’s all woman. No trace of girlish softness or uncertainty. Her body is full, with breasts that beg to be squeezed, hips made for a man to grip. She’s filled out with curves that come with time, confidence, and fire that doesn’t ask for permission.
This is not a girl in her twenties.
