He pushed my knees wider and settled between them, his broad shoulders blocking out everything else. When his mouth touched me, I cried out, sharp and unfiltered.
There was nothing gentle about it.
He ate me like he was starving. Mouth hot, tongue relentless, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. I gasped and writhed, trying to pull him closer, my hands sliding into his hair.
My head fell back as pleasure spiked fast and overwhelming, heat coiling tight in my stomach.
“Wrecker,” I sobbed. “I—I’m close.”
He didn’t slow down.
If anything, he went harder, tongue circling, sucking, driving me straight over the edge. I came with a broken cry, my body bowing off the bed, shaking hard enough my vision went white.
He stayed there through it, holding me steady until the tremors faded.
When he finally rose, his mouth was wet, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with want.
He stripped off his vest and shirt in quick, efficient motions, like he was running out of time. I drank him in. The scars on his chest. His thick arms. The way his body was already coiled and ready.
His pants came next.
And then his cock was free. Hard, flushed, thick, and heavy in his hand as he stroked himself.
My body shivered at the sight.
He climbed back over me, nudging my legs apart with his knee, lining himself up. The head of his cock brushed against me, slow and teasing, and I whimpered again, hips lifting without permission.
“Once I start,” he said, voice strained now. “I’m not sure how much I will be able to hold back.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “You won’t break me.”
“You are going to ruin me Amanda,” he said as he pushed into me in one smooth, steady thrust.
I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled me completely. The stretch burned just enough to make it real, grounding, anchoring me in my body in a way nothing else had.
He stilled for a moment, forehead dropping to mine.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Not because we didn’t want more. But because something important was happening in the space between us. Something quiet and deliberate.
This wasn’t the elevator.
This wasn’t panic or instinct or fear making decisions for me.
I was here. In my body. Choosing this.
Wrecker stayed still long enough for me to feel it—his weight, his breath, the way he was holding himself in check even now. Not taking. Not rushing. Waiting.
The realization hit me harder than the pleasure ever could.
He wasn’t using me to burn off adrenaline.
He was anchoring himself to me.
The thought wrapped tight around my chest, sharp and warm all at once.
I lifted my head just enough to meet his eyes. They weren’t wild. They weren’t distant.
