Not rough. Firm. One hand on my hip, one on my shoulder, and he turns me onto my stomach in a single motion. My cheek hits the pillow.
"Hips up."
I push up onto my knees. Chest low. Arms out. He pulls a pillow under my hips and presses me down onto it at a better angle.
Then he climbs up behind me and I feel the weight of him settle. His hand on my lower back. His cock against me.
"I'm going to go slow."
"Don't."
"Simone."
"Don't go slow. I'm wrung out. I want you to fuck me like you mean it."
He lets out a sound that might be a laugh.
"Yes ma'am."
He pushes in.
One stroke. Deep. All the way.
I cry out into the pillow.
His hand slides up my spine. Fingers splay between my shoulder blades. The other hand locks on my hip.
He starts moving.
The first few strokes are a test. I push back into him. He takes it as the answer. After that it's real.
He fucks me hard. Not fast. Hard. Every stroke bottoms out and the sound of us is obscene and his grip on my hip is going to leave a mark tomorrow and I do not care. I want the mark. I want to find it in the mirror in Toronto on Wednesday morning and know it's there.
His hand slides from my back up to the nape of my neck. Finds my hair. Wraps a handful of it around his fist.
He pulls. Just enough. My head comes back. My chest lifts.
"Good girl."
I come again on the word alone.
It surprises both of us.
He groans against my shoulder. Bites down at the curve where it meets my neck. Just teeth. Not hard. A claim.
"Jesus."
"I'm yours."
"Mine."
"Yours."
He pulls me up. Back against his chest. Both of us on our knees, me in his lap, his arm across my breasts, the other around my waist. He goes deeper from this angle. Slower. One of hishands comes around my throat. Not squeezing. Resting. Thumb along my pulse.
"Feel that."
"Yes."
