Page 42 of Crowbar

“There,” I moaned. “Right there.”

“Found it.” He stroked over it again, deliberate and merciless, working me open with a patience that was making me insane. Each thrust of his fingers sent electricity racing up my spine and pooling low in my stomach where it coiled tighter and tighter.

My cock leaked steadily onto my stomach, untouched and aching. Reaching down with my good hand, I wrapped my fingers around the base.

“Don’t touch yourself.” His free hand closed around my wrist before I could get there. “That’s mine. You come on my cock or you don’t come at all.”

A whine tore out of me. “Please.” I said. “Crowbar. Please.”

“Not yet.” He withdrew his fingers and left me clenching around nothing, slick and open and desperate. “Need you ready.”

“I am ready.”

He slicked his cock, slow about it, watching my face while he did it. Then he settled his weight between my legs and pressed the head of his cock against me.

“Eyes on me,” he said.

I met his eyes. Still that impossible black, wolf and man both staring back at me with the same raw hunger. One hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. The other braced beside my head, caging me in.

“Mine,” he said.

“Yours.”

He pushed in, one relentless inch at a time, until his balls pressed flush against my skin. My hole burned, stretched obscenely around his thickness, but I didn’t care— I wanted it. Wanted him buried so deep I’d feel it tomorrow. Wanted to be split open on his cock.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice scraped raw. “You’re strangling my cock.”

I clenched around him just to hear him curse again.

He didn’t move, just held himself still, letting me adjust to the intrusion. The tremor in his arms betrayed his restraint, but he waited, jaw clenched, until I nodded.

“Good?” His breath was warm against my ear.

I rolled my hips, testing the angle, and my spine arched off the bed. “Fuck me already.”

He pulled back until just the head of his cock stretched me open, then drove back in. Not gentle. Not slow. The slap of skin against skin filled the room, the bed frame groaning under the force of it.

My fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, while my bad arm stayed trapped against my side—useless, but I didn’t care.

All I cared about was the way he filled me, the way his cock dragged over that spot inside me that made my vision blur.

“There,” I choked out. “Right there.”

He found a rhythm, hips snapping forward with enough force to rock the mattress. Each thrust sent pleasure ricocheting through me, sharp and bright, until I was nothing but nerve endings and need. His grip on my hip tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I loved it.

“So fucking tight,” he panted. “Milking me like you were made for it.”

I was. I was made for this—for him. The pressure coiling in my gut wound tighter, hotter, until I was trembling with it.

“Stroke yourself,” he ordered. “Want to see you come apart on my cock.”

I wrapped my fist around my shaft, jerking in time with his thrusts. The slick sound of my hand moving over my cock mixed with the obscene squelch of him fucking into me. My balls drew up tight, pleasure coiling low in my gut.

“Gonna come,” I warned, voice breaking.

“Do it,” he snarled. “Paint your stomach for me.”

My orgasm hit like a punch to the gut. My cock jerked in my fist, spilling thick ropes across my stomach and chest while my body locked down around him. Pleasure crashed over me in waves, each one stealing my breath, until I was nothing but shaking limbs and a throat raw from moaning his name.