I undo his belt. The buckle clinks and the leather hisses through the loops and I pull it free and drop it on the floor. He lifts his hips and I drag his jeans down and he kicks them off. His shirt goes next. I pull it over his head, and he lets me and now he's beneath me in just his boxers, and I can see every scar and every ridge of muscle and the tattoo on his forearm that I still haven't read, and the hard outline of his cock straining against the cotton.
I grind down against him. One slow roll of my hips, pressing the seam of my jeans against the ridge of him, and the friction sends a pulse of heat between my legs so sharp my thighs clench. His head drops back against the headboard. His fingers dig into my hips.
"Fuck," he breathes.
I do it again. Slower this time. Rocking forward, dragging myself along the length of him, and the pressure hits my clit through the denim and I gasp. He groans. The sounds we make tangle together in the small room and the cabin walls hold them close.
"Off," I say, tugging at my own jeans. "I need these off."
I stand just long enough to strip. Jeans, underwear, kicked to the floor. He watches me from the bed, propped against the headboard, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands gripping his own thighs like he's stopping himself from reachingfor me. The restraint is visible. The cords in his neck are pulled taut, and his knuckles are white and he's letting me set the pace, letting me decide, and the power of that makes me dizzy.
I straddle him again. Nothing between us now except the thin cotton of his boxers, and the heat of his cock against my bare center is so good I make a sound that doesn't belong to me. A moan. Low and open. The sound of a woman who wants something and isn't afraid to take it.
I reach between us. Slide my hand into his boxers. Wrap my fingers around him. He's thick and hard and hot, the skin smooth over rigid flesh, and when I stroke him from root to tip his whole body goes tense. Every muscle. His stomach, his thighs, his arms. Like I plugged him into a current.
"Charlotte." Through his teeth. Strained. Barely language. "If you keep doing that—"
"You'll lose control?" I stroke him again. Twist my wrist at the head. His hips jerk off the bed. "That's the point."
I strip his boxers off. He springs free, hard and flushed, the tip slick. I wrap my hand around him again and give him three slow strokes, watching his face the whole time. His brow furrows. His lips part. His eyes are locked on mine and they're burning, dark and desperate, the eyes of a man who has handed the reins to someone else and is terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.
"Condom," I say.
"Bag. Side pocket."
I lean over and dig through the bag. Find the strip. Tear one off with my teeth and his eyes track the movement of my mouth and I see his cock twitch against his stomach, untouched, just from watching me use my teeth on a wrapper.
I roll the condom onto him. Slow. Teasing. My fingers travel the length of him, smoothing the latex, and he hisses through his teeth and grabs my wrist.
"You're killing me."
"You'll survive."
I position myself over him. The tip of his cock presses against my entrance and I hold there. One second. Two. I'm wet. Soaked, actually, and I can feel it on the insides of my thighs and against the head of his cock, and his jaw clenches when he feels it too.
"Look at me," I say.
He does.
I sink down.
Slow. Inch by inch. Taking him inside me with a patience I don't feel but need to perform, because this is mine. This pace, this angle, this moment. His cock stretches me open and the fullness is intense, almost too much, the kind of pressure that borders onpain and lands on the right side of it. My hands are on his chest. His hands are on my hips. Our eyes are locked and neither of us blinks.
I bottom out. Take all of him. Feel him pressed so deep inside me that I can feel my own pulse around him. I hold still. Breathe. His chest is heaving under my palms, and his fingers are dug into my hips hard enough to leave marks and I want them. I want the bruises. I want to look at my body tomorrow and see proof of this, proof that I chose this, proof that someone touched me because I said yes.
"Fuck, principessa, you feel so good.” His voice is a groan and my pussy clenches as he speaks.
"Mmmm, yes, fuck." I roll my hips. A slow figure-eight that drags him against every nerve inside me, and we both groan. "Don't move."
"Charlotte, I need to—"
"Don't. Move."
He holds still. The effort is visible, his abs clenched, his thighs trembling beneath me, his jaw so tight I can hear his teeth grinding. He's giving me this. Complete control. A man who controls everything, who runs operations and disassembles threats and manages every variable in his environment, lying still beneath me because I told him to.
I start to ride him.
Slow at first. Long rolls of my hips, lifting until just the tip is inside me and then sinking back down, taking him deep. The sensation is enormous. Every stroke lights up a line from my clit to my spine, and I chase the angle that hits the spot inside me that makes my vision blur. I find it. The slight forward tilt that drags the head of his cock against my front wall, and the noise I make is loud and sharp and I don't try to muffle it.
