Ayla
The stretch is perfect.
Every piercing scrapes inside me—slow fire, relentless pressure, each barbell popping past that sensitive ring of muscle until I feel him seated so deep I swear I taste him in my throat.
I can’t breathe.
Don’t want to.
His hands leave my wrists and I sit up, my hands gripping his shoulders when his clamp my hips, hard enough to bruise.
He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease in. Just pulls back almost all the way, letting me feel every single rung drag on the way out, then slams home again.
The desk groans under us. Something else falls, the keyboard, phone, doesn’t matter. The world narrows to this: him inside me, filling me, ruining me, owning me in the only way he knows how.
I rake my nails down his back, hard, drawing red lines across the skull tattoo, I can feel it. He hisses, thrusts harder, punishing. The piercings hit that spot inside me over and over—bright, electric, almost too much.
“Maksim—”
His name rips out of me—half plea, half curse.
He groans against my neck, teeth sinking in, the sharp pressure almost makes me come. “Say it again.”
“Maksim.”
I gasp his name louder.
He fucks me faster—deeper, desk rocking, wood creaking, everything on it sliding toward the edge. My legs tighten around his waist, heel digging into his ass, urging him harder.
I hate him.
Hate that I love how good he feels. How hard he fucks.
I need him.
I hate that I need him.
His hand slides between us. His fingers are merciless, he rubs rough circles on my clit that match the brutal snap of his hips.
Every thrust shoves me higher on the desk; the edge bites into my ass, bruises blooming under the pressure.
His sweat drips onto my chest, mixing with mine, salty and hot. The air smells like sex and his cologne. My thighs burn from clamping around him, and it only makes the coil in my belly tighten harder.
“Come,” he snarls against my ear. “Come on my cock, Beda. Squeeze every rung with that sweet cunt. Let me feel you break for me.”
I come. Hard. Overwhelming
My thighs tightening around him, nails sinking so deep I feel skin give under them. A cry tears out of me—raw, broken, nothing held back. My walls pulse around him, milking every pierced inch, dragging him deeper.
He howls out a laugh that sounds like pain and relief low, dark—then slams in one last time and comes. Hot. Deep.
So fucking deep.
Filling me until I feel it spill out, slick and obscene.
He doesn’t pull out.
Stays buried, chest heaving against mine, forehead pressed to my shoulder, breath ragged against my skin.
