How on earth does he know how to make it feel so good?
I want to ask. Want to know if he has a prostate. But what I want more is for him to never stop, unless it’s to replace his digit with his impressive cock.
My body has complete control as it chases the pleasure. A whimper escapes me when he removes his finger but is immediately exchanged when he pushes two digits inside me. I feel everything: the rough pads of his fingers, their size, how they drag along my walls, threatening to push me over the edge.
He adjusts his movement to match my breath, my reactions. The care in it is overwhelming. I’ve never felt so seen, soattended to, and the knowledge that he’s choosing this with me—choosing to be careful when he could so easily overwhelm—makes my throat tighten.
The space between us shrinks again, heat building, want threading through every movement. I cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as my body tilts instinctively closer.
“I need you.” The words are desperate, my words higher pitched than I intended. That doesn’t stop my desperate “Please, Boone. Now” from escaping.
And then I’m clinging to him, grabbing on as my view shifts and he picks me up with such little effort that I grasp my balls to stop me from coming.
He’s so hot. Absolutely crazy, ridiculously, perfectly strong and sexy and?—
My eyes roll back when he presses in with soapy fingers. Then he’s breaching my hole. Along with my eyesight, the sensation steals my breath entirely.
I gasp, forehead dropping to his shoulder as I adjust and he stills, my body learning the shape of him, the closeness, theweight of this choice. He’s so big, filling me in a way that I’ve never experienced before. And this is his human form, which is two inches smaller and has a girth I can apparently handle.
That and he’s not fully seated yet.
The last thing I should be doing is thinking ahead when I’m already stretched and feeling full, but praise be to the cryptid gods, I can’t wait until it’s fur I can feel in my grip when he’s fucking into me.
He doesn’t move until I nod, until my breath evens and I look up at him again.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “My Elias, let me take care of you.”
The words do something to me that nothing else ever has. I nod again, trusting him completely, and when he pushes his huge cock deeper and finally settles fully inside me, the connection feels less like taking and more likebelonging. Like a missing piece finally sliding into place.
I laugh softly, breathless and overwhelmed. “Okay. That’s—wow.”
I wriggle a little, testing the hold of his arms, feeling impossibly safe and, honestly, impaled. Impaled in the most exquisite of ways. Every inch of me is aware of how full I am, how completely he has me. The knowledge sends another ripple of pleasure through my body.
Boone groans, his lids sliding shut like he’s bracing himself. “Elias,” he grunts. “Give me a moment.”
The sound of my name on his tongue makes my chest ache. I beam, helplessly delighted by the fact that he’s just as affected as I am, but I need him to move. Need him to pound into me so hard I feel him everywhere, need the force of him to drive the thought of anything else right out of my head.
I try—I really do—to give him the moment he’s asking for. But the urge to wriggle, to lift and slam down on him, coils tightand urgent inside me, wrapped in desire and the need to come and be filled so thoroughly with him that it leaves me dizzy and wrecked and gasping.
“Boone.” The word spills out of me, needy and unfiltered, a pining, slutty plea I don’t even try to take back. Because what else is a man supposed to do when he’s stuffed to capacity with a monster cock?
Beg, apparently.
His eyes snap open, locking onto mine, and whatever restraint he was clinging to shatters. His expression turns molten—almost feral—as his grip tightens. One hand anchors my ass, the other wraps around my back, fingers biting into my shoulder, holding me exactly where he wants me.
Then he thrusts.
Hard.
So perfectly, dizzyingly hard that stars burst behind my eyes and my breath tears free in a broken sound. I can do nothing but cling to him as he tilts his hips and drives into me again and again, each movement sending sensation skidding across my skin, flooding my veins, settling deep into every cell that makes me who I am.
It’s too much—overwhelming and exquisite—and still not enough.
I swear I can feel myself changing under his touch, the pleasure zapping through me with such intensity it feels like it’s rewriting who I am, claiming me in ways that have nothing to do with logic and everything to do with truth.
I feel everything.
Still too much, and somehow still never enough.
