“Fuck, Beda,” he growls, voice scraping low and gravel-rough. “You think you can just show up and shove me over the edge? I’ve been keeping my hands off you on purpose—to keep from ruining you the way you fucking beg for without saying it.”
I hold his stare, unflinching.Bullshit.
He’s the one who’s been sleeping inches away, coiled like a spring, refusing to snap. My hand slides up his chest, slow, grease streaking under my palm as I map the tense ridges of muscle jumping under my touch. He’s fever-hot, strung so tight I can feel the tremor in him.
“Keeping your hands off?” I murmur, nails scraping lightly. “That’s done now.”
The leash snaps.
His mouth slams onto mine; hard, claiming, tongue piercing clicking against my teeth as he forces his way in, tasting me like he’s furious at how good it is. I bite back just as vicious, nipping his lip until he hisses, the faint copper taste blooming between us. His hands are everywhere, my hair, ass, hips; hauling me closer until I feel every thick inch of him straining against my denim.
He breaks first, forehead pressing to mine, breath heaving like he’s fighting a war under his own skin.
Frustration flickers in his eyes, sharp and feral.
Hehatesthis.
Hates how much he needs it.
“You have no fucking clue how bad I want to bend you over this bike and fuck you.” His hand tightens on my waist. “Stretch that tight cunt on my cock until you’re dripping, make you take every pierced inch until you’re screaming. But you keep pushing, and I’ll make sure you feel it all.”
The words land like sparks on dry grass. My pussy clenches, aching and empty. I shift against him, feeling the hard line of him, the subtle promise of that ladder waiting to drag me apart. Those metal rungs—fuck,each one catching and rubbing inside me, turning every thrust into torture so good I see stars.
“Keep talking,” I challenge, popping the button on his jeans slow and deliberate. My other hand slides into his hair; anchoring him, beforetrailing down to his chest so I don’t get shoved back when he moves. His eyes flash with possession and heat, bitter resentment because I’m making him give in. “Tell me how you’re gonna break me.”
He snatches my wrist, locks it to his chest where his heart is hammering, then shoves my pants down in one rough yank. No patience left.
He frees himself with a growl; thick, veined, those silver rungs glinting under the garage lights like a weapon. “I’m gonna pin you down, fuck you deep, make that greedy pussy grip every rung until you’re begging. Fill you up hot and messy, because you keep driving me fucking insane, Ayla.”
I stroke him once—firm, feeling those cool rungs warm under my palm. He groans, hips jerking, but he shoves my hand away, spins me fast, and bends me over the bike.
My hands catch on the leather, one gripping the edge, the other flattening to steady myself. The seat is cool against my chest, the edge of it pressing into my stomach as he kicks my legs wider. One hand clamps my hip, the other guides himself to my entrance, teasing the tip through my slickness. His breath fans across my back, ragged, like even this proximity is costing him control.
“You want rough?” he snarls, voice breaking with frustration. “I’ll give you rough.”
He thrusts in hard; all the way, no warning. The stretch is brutal, perfect, those rungs dragging fire along my walls, each one catching and rubbing with devastating precision.
I cry out, fingers scrabbling on the leather. He doesn’t let up—sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, pounding deep like he’s trying to punish us both.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he bites the word off like it hurts him to say it. His hand slides up my spine, then down, thumb brushing over my arsehole, slow, deliberate pressure that makes me shudder hard.
He groans, low and feral. “Gonna fill this hole too, Beda.Soon.Gonna stretch you here, mark you everywhere.”
I laugh, breathless and defiant, even as another wave of heat floods me. “That’s never fucking happening.”
His thumb presses just a fraction harder, enough to make me gasp, enough to make my pussy clamp down on him like a vice. He curses under his breath, thrusts turning erratic for a second before he regains control.
“You say that,” he rasps, voice dark and filthy against my ear, “but every time I touch it, your cunt grips my cock like it wants to keep me forever. Traitorous little body, begging for what your mouth won’t admit.”
He drives deeper, relentless, the bike shifting on its stand, those piercings dragging with every stroke, building that unbearable pressure. His free hand snakes around to find my clit, rolling rough circles that match his rhythm, while his thumb keeps teasing, light then firmer, making me shake.
“Blyad, your pussy grips me like a fucking vice, wet and perfect, milking my cock, begging for my load. I’ll flood you, Beda, pump you full until you’re leaking me, make you mine from the inside out because you drive me to this madness.”
“Maksim,” I whimper. My face heats
“Fucking perfect,” he growls, voice cracking with the strain of holding back. “Those sweet submissive little sounds. Going to make those whimpers when I fuck your ass?”
“Fuck you Maksim,” I spit.
