It’s obscene, the way he plays with my willpower, makes me want to give in when every instinct says to fight for the upper hand.
He never breaks eye contact, even when my head tips back and my jaw goes slack, and it becomes a silent game—how long can I hold out before he completely wrecks me?
The answer is: not long…but I’m sure going to try.
I feel my body start to tremble, a delicious, violent shudder that starts at my knees and ripples up my spine, and Matteo drinks it in, eyes dark and greedy.
“Are you gonna wait for me, Pinky?” he rasped, voice pure sin.
I gritted my teeth, fighting the wave, thighs trembling around his waist. He praised me through it.
“Good girl, just like that, fuck you feel incredible”.
Each word winding me tighter until I was shaking with the effort.
He drove in deep, curses spilling from his lips.
“Almost there… few more strokes…” It’s a warning, a threat, a promise. His words are jagged, barely more than a snarl in my ear, and the way he fucks me—each precise, hungry thrust—strips the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my skull.
My muscles spasm in violent anticipation; my whole body is a hair-trigger, a livewire stretched to the point of snapping. I’m suspended between agony and ecstasy, every nerve ending melted into one pulsing, singular need.
My hands scrabble for purchase on the slick muscle of his shoulders, nails biting deep, and I realize I’m not just holding on for dear life—I’m anchoring us both to this moment, refusing to let either of us come up for air until we’ve burned every last bit of oxygen out of the room.
His mouth finds mine again, crushing and clumsy, all teeth and tongue and desperate, half-muffled groans.
The taste of him—clean sweat and mint, a tang of blood from a lip he must’ve bitten through—is dizzying.
He’s so deep inside me it’s almost painful, but I want more, god, I want all of it, I want to be filled until there’s nothing left of me but this.
The wet slap of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of our bodies grinding together, the sharp, sweet reek of sex and pheromone haze—it’s a symphony, a sports arena roar, a disaster in slow motion.
I feel my orgasm build, then spiral, then threaten to swallow me whole.
Still, he won’t let up. He fucks me harder, chasing his own finish line, but his eyes are locked on mine, pupils blown wide, like he needs to see the exact second I break.
“Cum with me,” he growls, and that’s the kill shot.
My insides seize, a cataclysmic clamp around him, and then I’m gone—shattered in a detonation of light and heat, crying out so loud it echoes off cinderblocks two rooms down.
My vision whites out, ears ringing, and I’m dimly aware of Matteo’s answering shout as he slams in and holds, pulsing inside me. I feel every spasm, every hot pulse of him, as if our bodies are welded together at the core.
I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t even process the aftershocks as they rip through me, one after another, liquid and electric and almost too much.
I cling to him, boneless and trembling, my face mashed into the side of his neck, and he’s shaking too, arms clamped hard around my waist to keep us upright. The spray from the shower mists over us, cooling our skin in contrast to the fevered slickness between our thighs.
For long moments, only the drip of the shower and our ragged breathing filled the stall. He held me close, forehead to mine once more, the water cooling on our overheated skin.
“Oh, I’m gonna fight every universal deity to make us endgame,” he whispered, voice thick with something that felt dangerously like promise.
I laughed into the crook of his shoulder, tasting salt and citrus and him.
“You may be biting off more than you can chew, Twenty-One.”
Matteo chuckled, the sound warm and fond as he pressed a kiss to my temple.
“Maybe. But that ain’t gonna stop me from trying.”
We shared a look then—raw, unguarded, the kind that stripped away the chirps and the gear and the arena bullshit.
