My body is thrashing, but he holds me down easily, enjoying it, watching me fall apart under him.
He slaps his cock against my tongue, smearing spit and pre-cum across my lips, then thrusts deep again, until my nose is pressed into his stomach.
I can’t breathe.
He rams his cock into my mouth, finally done pretending I’m anything more than a hole to use.
Then he pulls out, just for a second, so I can suck in one desperate breath before he shoves back in harder.
“Fuck,” he rasps, voice low and unhinged. “Fucking—fuck.”
His whole body tenses. The manic grin disappears, replaced by something more sinister.
He shudders.
He comes with a broken, vicious sound, fingers tangled in my hair, holding my head still while he pumps every last drop onto my tongue and down my throat.
He moans like it’s holy, and I suck like I’m praying.
When he finally pulls back, I’m gasping desperately. My lips are swollen and his cum is smeared across my chin and down my neck.
He looks down at me like he just painted a masterpiece.
“You,” he says, still breathless, “are never fucking running from me again.”
“I’m not,” I pant, eyes locked on his.
“Mine,” he says softly. “Every fucking inch of you.”
“Yours.”
And then, just like that, he leans in and gently kisses the mess right off my lips.
The day found us filthy.Actuallyfilthy. We woke up naked, covered in dirt and mud, like we’d lost our minds the night before, or werewolves after a full moon, except without the excuse.
I’d never experienced anything like it in my life, and somehow, against all logic, it was one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. Maybe even the best.
He walked into the mansion commando, covering just his dick, pulled on a pair of pants, grabbed a blanket, came back, wrapped it around me, and carried me inside, princess style.
This man … he goes from being a complete savage to a prince without warning.
He remembers everything, which makes the situation stranger than I thought. I wasn’t with a different person. I was with a different version of the same one.
Later that same evening, after spending the most normal day we’ve had since we met, we’re sitting in the living room, cuddling and chatting like a normal couple. Whatever that even means. At least, that’s what I think normal couples do.
We tease each other, tickle each other, make out for a while—carefully, because we live in a house full of people—and somehow end up joking around.
Every time his fingers slide over my skin—my shoulders, my arms, my neck—I feel a jolt. Besides, the thin straps of my top leave most of my back exposed.
My knees weaken every time I see the faint dimples in his cheeks, every time he gives me one of those smug-ass smirks I still can’t resist. My heart beats faster as the days pass, or every time his eyes search the room, every time they find me, and every time they brighten when they do.
What the hell is this feeling?
“There’s a very serious question I’ve been dying to ask you for so long,” I say playfully, pulling my feet onto the couch and sitting cross-legged beside him.
“I’m intrigued, little orchid,” he says, leaning back. “Ask.”
“Why Mickey?”
