"Not yet," she says.
My own words. My own voice. Aimed back at me from between my knees by a woman who learned my game and is beating me at it.
She climbs back into my lap. Straddles me. Tips her hips and sinks down onto my cock in one slow slide and I grip her hips and stop breathing.
She doesn't move. Just sits there, fully seated, her hands on my shoulders, and looks at me. Something on her face I haven't seen before. Not desire, though that's there. Not vulnerability. Something closer to amusement. She is sitting on my cock on my couch and she looks like a woman who knows exactly what she's doing and is enjoying the view.
“How’s this?”
Fuck, she’s so hot and tight. It’s enough to make my head spin and I forget how to speak.
She rolls her hips. Once. Slow. A test. Watching my face while she does it the way I watch hers when I'm working her apart.
"Good?" she says.
I make a sound that is not a word.
"I'll take that as a yes."
She starts to move. Slow and deliberate, rolling her hips in long circles, and she is in no hurry whatsoever. Her hands slide from my shoulders to the back of the couch behind me, which changes the angle and puts her above me and she looks down at me with the lamplight behind her and her hair falling forward and I cannot think.
I have spent my entire adult life being the person in control. In rooms. In conversations. In bed. I have been unhurried and deliberate and patient because that is what I know how to be. She is sitting on me setting her own pace and I have no inputand I am watching her face while she takes what she wants and I have never in my life been this undone by someone going slowly.
My hands go to her hips. She puts them back on the couch.
"No," she says. Smiling. "My turn."
"Billie—" I barely recognize my own voice.
"Shh." She leans down and kisses me, still moving, and bites my lower lip lightly and pulls back and watches what it does to me. She sits up. Puts her hands flat on my chest. Rolls her hips again, deeper this time, and my cock slides against something inside her that makes her breath catch and her eyes flutter and she adjusts and does it again, chasing it, finding her own pleasure on me, and I am watching her face and she is the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen.
Twenty-one years old. On my couch. In my shirt that's riding up around her waist. Her thighs tense on either side of my hips. Her hands pressing down on my chest. Her eyes half-closed, mouth open, finding the rhythm and the angle that works for her.
I am watching her the way I have watched her for seven months. Through screens, across dinner tables, in the lamplight of her bedroom. Except this is different from all of that because she is here and real and on top of me and she is not performing. She is taking. For herself. And I am hers to take.
My hands find her thighs. She lets them stay this time. I don't guide her. I just hold on.
She leans forward again. Puts her mouth close to my ear. And says, very quietly, very deliberately:
"Daddy."
Not a slip. Not fear. A choice. She says it with her hips moving and the smile still on her face and she watches my reaction with the bright-eyed focus of a woman who has just played her best card and knows it.
My hands tighten on her thighs. My whole body goes taut beneath her. The sound I make is low and involuntary and she hears it and she does not stop moving. She rolls her hips slower. Deeper. Taking her time with it, drawing it out, and the deliberate pace while that word is still ringing in my ears is a specific form of torture that I am choosing not to resist because resisting would require some version of composure that I no longer possess.
"Again," I manage.
She says it again. Against my ear. Murmured. Like it's just how she talks to me now. Like it was always going to be this. Then she sits up and puts her hands back on my chest and starts riding me properly. Not slow anymore. Her pace. Her angle. Her rhythm, and it's faster and harder than what I'd choose and I let her have it because I am watching her take what she needs and there is nothing else I want to be doing.
She's close. I can see it— the way her thighs tense, the way her breathing changes, the way her fingers press harder into my chest. I know her tells. I know them all. She's getting there on her terms, at her pace, using me, and the fact of it is so staggering that I have to grip the couch cushion to keep from flipping her over and finishing this myself.
I don't flip her. She's running this. I let her run it.
She comes with her head tipped back and her hands on my chest and a sound I've heard five times now and each time it rewrites everything. Clenching around my cock, pulsing, her whole body pulling tight, and I feel every second of it.
She opens her eyes. Looks down at me. Flushed. Wrecked. Still smiling.
I grip her hips. Pull her down. Drive up into her and come with my face pressed to her throat and my arms around her and a sound that has nothing controlled in it, nothing managed, nothing deliberate. Just a man who has been taken apart bya twenty-one-year-old woman on his couch and is not coming back from it.
