Chapter 11 #2
He shoves at my shoulders, a hard, sharp movement meant to throw me off.
I’m ready for it. I let the force of his push slide past me, twisting my body and using his own momentum to grab his wrists.
I slam them back against the wall, above his head, holding them there.
My fingers circle his wrists easily; they’re strong, but mine are stronger from years in the ring.
For a second, we’re frozen like that, chest to chest in the damp alley air. His eyes are pure fury, a dark storm I want to drown in. The bond in my chest squeezes tight, a hungry, approving pulse. This is exactly where I want to be.
“Slippery as a fucking eel,” Suha snarls. He tests my hold, his muscles corded and tense, but I don’t budge. His gaze flicks over my face, the anger shifting into something sharper, more calculating. “When did you get so aggressive?”
I don’t answer him with words. My grin just widens, all teeth.
Then I drop.
My knees hit the cold, gritty concrete with a jolt that I feel all the way up my spine.
I don’t break eye contact as my hands fly to his belt, fingers working the polished buckle with a speed born of a lifetime of getting into and out of trouble.
The click of the metal release is loud in the quiet alley.
His zipper comes down with a harsh, decisive sound.
Suha’s protests die in his throat, replaced by a sharp inhale.
I don’t give him time to think, to shove me away.
I pull his cock out through the open fly of his expensive slacks.
He’s already half-hard, thick and heavy in my hand, proof of the stupid, undeniable chemistry that sizzles between us even when he’s trying to murder me with his eyes.
I take him into my mouth without hesitation.
The taste of him is familiar now, salt and skin and Suha.
I swirl my tongue around the head, a slow, deliberate tease, before taking him deeper.
My cheeks hollow as I suck, my hands moving from his hips to grip the backs of his thighs, holding him steady against the wall.
His body goes rigid, a statue coming to life.
A low groan vibrates in his chest, escaping through his clenched teeth.
One of his hands comes down from where I’d pinned it, tangling in my hair.
His grip isn’t gentle. It’s possessive, fierce, torn between pushing me away and yanking me closer.
I can feel the conflict in the tremor of his fingers.
I redouble my efforts, humming around him, the vibration making his hips jerk forward involuntarily.
It doesn’t take long. Under my tongue and the heat of my mouth, he swells to full, aching hardness.
His breathing turns ragged, each exhale a shaky thing that sounds almost pained.
I pull off slowly, letting his cock slip from my lips with a wet sound that seems ridiculously loud.
A thin string of saliva connects my bottom lip to his flushed, slick head for a second before it breaks.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the grin never leaving my face.
I see the haze in his eyes, the rut-thick need that’s never fully gone simmering right under the surface of his control.
Before that control can reassert itself, before he can process what’s happening and decide to be angry about it, I move.
I stand up in one fluid motion and turn my back on him.
His confused, heated noise is like music.
I bend forward from the waist, grabbing my own ankles for balance.
The stretch pulls at the sore muscles in my thighs, a pleasant burn.
With my other hand, I reach back and yank my pants and boxers down just enough, just past the curve of my ass.
I’m still loose and slick from him, from his rut, from the fucking he gave me that left me walking funny. I don’t need prep. I don’t want it.
I back up slowly, guiding myself onto him.
The head of his cock catches at my entrance, and I push back, impaling myself in one smooth, unbroken motion.
The stretch is breathtaking, a sharp, full feeling that pushes the air from my lungs in a low groan.
I sink down until my ass meets his hips, until I’m fully seated, his cock buried deep inside me.
Above me, Suha makes a choked sound of pure shock. His hands fly to my hips, his fingers digging into the bones, as if to steady himself or to stop me. But it’s too late. I’m already moving.
I start fucking myself on him, bouncing back against his hips with a shameless, eager rhythm.
The position is awkward, bent over like this with my pants around my thighs.
The angle is rough, each drive of my body taking him deep in a way that borders on painful.
I don’t care. The friction is perfect, the fullness is everything.
I set a quick, desperate pace, my own cock hard and straining against the rough fabric of my jeans.
The sounds I’m making are filthy, little grunts and gasps that echo off the brick walls.
His hands on my hips tighten, his blunt nails biting through the leather of my jacket.
For a few glorious seconds, he just lets me use him, lets me ride him in this dirty alley like I’m some cheap thrill he picked up.
I can feel the tension coiling in his body, the fight he’s having with himself to stay still, to not give in and take over.
Then his hips give a short, aborted thrust, meeting my backward slam. A broken curse leaves his lips.
That’s my cue.
On the next backward rock of my hips, I pull off abruptly, his cock sliding out of me with a wet, empty sound. In the same motion, I yank my pants and boxers back up, fumbling with the button and zipper. My fingers feel thick and clumsy.
I don’t look back. I just take off running.
My boots slap against the wet concrete, the sound frantic and loud in the narrow space.
I dart between the stacked pallets, my heart hammering against my ribs, a wild, exhilarated laugh fighting to break free from my throat.
I can hear him behind me, a furious snarl that’s half rage, half disbelief.
I don’t stop. I round the corner at the end of the alley and vanish into the warren of backstreets, the taste of him still on my tongue and the feel of him still aching inside me, a perfect, taunting ghost of a touch.