He pushed inside in one hard thrust, filling me completely, and I cried out at the stretch of it. He was so fucking big, so thick, and I was still sensitive from coming twice already.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. “Take all of me. Every fucking inch. You feel that? That’s my cock buried deep in that gorgeous pussy, and you’re gonna remember who gave it to you.”
He started to move, and it was nothing like the gentle lovemaking from before. This was raw. Primal. His hips snapping against mine with bruising force, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wider so he could go deeper.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and my eyes flew to his. “Want you to see who’s fucking you. This is mine now, Trudy. This body, this pussy—all of it. You hear me? Want you to remember this every time you sit down tomorrow.”
I would. God help me, I would.
The headboard slammed against the wall with each thrust, the sound obscene in the quiet morning. His dog tags swung between us, catching the light, and I watched the muscles in his shoulders flex and bunch as he fucked me.
This was what it meant to be with a biker. Not the leather or the motorcycle or the club. This. This raw, unfiltered intensity. This complete and utter possession.
“Come for me again,” he growled, one hand sliding between us to rub my clit. “Want to feel you squeeze my cock.”
“I can’t.” But even as I said it, I felt the pressure building again, impossible and overwhelming.
“You can. You will.” His thumb pressed harder, circling with deliberate intensity. “I didn’t give you all this dick just to have you give up on me now. Come on, Trudy. Milk my cock. Give it to me.”
And I did. I came so hard I saw stars, my pussy clenching around him, my nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks.
He followed me over, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and came with a roar that probably woke the neighbors. I felt him pulse inside me, felt the warmth of his release, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
This. This was why I’d fallen for him.
Not because he was charming or generous or because he made me feel young again. But because he made me feel alive. Because he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. Because he fucked me like he meant it, like every thrust was a promise he intended to keep.
He collapsed beside me, pulling me against his chest, both of us breathing hard.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good morning to you too, darlin’.”
I turned my head to look at him, at this man who’d turned my carefully ordered life upside down. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Nah.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, surprisingly gentle after the intensity of what we’d just done. “I’m gonna be the life of you. Just wait and see.”
And lying there in his arms, my body still trembling with aftershocks, I believed him.
Eventually, I slipped out of bed, my legs still unsteady, and pulled on my robe. “I’m making breakfast.”
“Need help?” he called from the bedroom.
“I’ve got it.”
But he followed me anyway, appearing in the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but his jeans, unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. I tried not to stare at the expanse of tattooed skin, the silver hair on his chest, the way those jeans hung just right.
I busied myself with the coffee maker, pulling eggs and bacon from the fridge, trying to focus on the familiar routine of cooking. But then his hands were on my waist, warm and possessive, pulling me back against his chest.
“Stephen—”
“Keep cooking,” he murmured against my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
I cracked eggs into a bowl, trying to concentrate, but his hands were sliding up my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin robe. When I reached for the whisk, he swept my hair to one side and kissed the curve where my neck met my shoulder.
“You’re distracting me,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“Good.”
