"But this." His hips shift underneath me and I gasp. "This is not the version. This is not for them." He holds my gaze. "Nobody else gets to see what you look like right now. Nobody else gets to hear the sounds you make when I'm inside you. Nobody else gets to know what your face does when you come. That's mine."
Every nerve I have is awake. His hand on my throat and his cock inside me and his voice telling me I belong to him in terms that are frankly possessive enough to qualify as a red flag in anyother context and my only coherent thought isyes, more of that, please don't stop talking.
"The four thousand people watching your stream," he says. "They get BrattyBaby. They get the filter, the angle, the performance." His hand tightens fractionally on my throat. I feel my pulse jump against his palm. "They don't get this. Say it."
"They don't get this," I say, and my voice comes out wrecked, which is what happens when a man has his hand around your throat and is looking at you like you are the only thing in the world that matters and is also inside you.
"Say who does."
"You do."
"Say my name."
"Declan." It comes out like a sound, not a word. "Only you."
Foe one second I see the full scope of what this man feels about me and it is vast and total and slightly terrifying and I want every inch of it.
He takes his hand off my throat and puts both hands on my hips and flips me.
My back hits the mattress and he's over me and inside me in one motion and the pace he sets is nothing like the controlled, deliberate rhythm I've gotten used to. This is fast and deep and relentless and his hands pin my wrists above my head and he drives into me like he's proving something, like the words weren't enough and he needs me to feel it in my body.
I feel it in my body.
I feel it everywhere. Every stroke hits deep and hard and his cock fills me completely and the angle is devastating, his weight on me and his hands on my wrists and his mouth at my ear and I am so wet I can hear it, the obscene sound of his cock driving into me, and I stop trying to be anything other than wrecked.
What would your chat say.
The thought arrives mid-stroke. Uninvited. My dad's best friend. Twenty-seven years between us. His hand was just on my throat and I asked for more. Four thousand people who think they know BrattyBaby would lose their entire minds.
"More," I say. "Harder. Don't stop."
He gives me harder.
His mouth at my ear: "Nobody else."
"Nobody else."
"You come home to me. You come here after the stream and you take off the filter and you're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours. I come home to you."
"Good girl."
Those two words hit different tonight. Not the gentle praise from the first time, not the reward for following direction. Thisgood girlis claiming. He says it into my neck while he drives into me and I come so hard I can't see.
It crashes through me in waves, clenching around his cock, pulsing, my wrists straining against his hands and my back arching off the mattress and the sound I make fills the room. He doesn't stop. He drives through my orgasm, his pace unbroken, relentless, and the overstimulation turns into a second wave and I cry out and he says “That's mine, that sound is mine,” and I come again, or still, I can't tell where one ends and the next begins.
I feel the exact moment his control breaks: his rhythm goes ragged, and he buries himself deep and holds there.
“Fuck, baby girl.”
I feel him pulse inside me. I feel every second of it. His forehead against my collarbone. His breathing ragged. His hands slowly, slowly releasing my wrists.
I lie there. Breathing. My wrists tingling where he held them.
That was,says my brain, which has been running on emergency power for the last ten minutes,a lot. That was a lot of things. Several of which we should probably think about.
Later. Much later.
