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He pulls his fingers free, and the loss makes me whimper.
He shifts closer, knees nudging mine wider. The head of his cock presses against me, slick and blunt and larger than memory, because memory is useless in the moment before being opened.
My breath stops.
His hand slides up my back, under my shirt, to the nape of my neck.
He pushes in. Controlled enough that I feel every inch.
My body gives. The stretch moves through me in a hot, impossible line, and the sound I make into the pillow has no dignity in it at all.
Clint groans behind me.
“Fuck, you feel—”
His hips meet mine.
For a second, the house holds still around us. The pool light. The ugly pillow under my cheek. My pants around my knees. Clint’s hands on me and his cock inside me. Clint, not being shown where to go.
Then he draws back, pushes in again. My whole body rocks forward.
Again.
The rhythm starts rougher than usual for us. Not reckless, but no longer asking me to lead from under him. His hands settle on my hips and pull me back to meet him, each thrust deeper, harder, more certain.
There’s that word again—certainty. This is what I want. Clint in all his power. And, God help me, my body loves it.
I moan into the pillow, and his grip tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let me hear it.”
So I do. I let the whole room have it. Every broken breath. Every guttural noise. Every gasp when he hits the place that makes my thoughts scatter bright.
He leans over me, chest against my back, one arm coming around my ribs to hold me close while he keeps fucking me.
“Mine right now,” he says into my ear.
I reach back blindly and find his thigh, his hip, anything. My fingers slide against sweat-warm skin.
“Yes.”
He bites the word against my shoulder through my shirt. “Say it again.”
“Yes.”
He drives in harder. My cock drags against the pillow and the trapped fabric beneath me, and the pressure is not enough, then too much, then exactly enough. I shake apart under him, coming with my face buried and my body holding tight around him.
Clint curses, hips breaking rhythm.
His hand spreads over my lower back, holding me down as he thrusts through it, chasing his own finish, taking what I’ve offered until his body locks and he comes with a groan that sounds pulled from somewhere deep.
He stays inside me. Hard breathing. Hand still on my back.
I lie there under him, emptied and aching and strangely whole, dreading the moment when he pulls out of me.
Morning arrives too cleanly.
The light through the bedroom curtains is pale and gold. Clint is asleep beside me on his stomach, one arm under the pillow, his mouth slightly open, his back bare above the sheet.
