Chapter 38 #2
One hand spread across my lower back while the other stroked down, fingers parting me, testing how ready I was—finding me soaked.
A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest. “All that from sucking me?”
I looked over my shoulder, met his gaze, and answered with my eyes as he guided the head of his cock through my just outside my pussy, teasing, gathering wetness.
I pushed back, greedy for more.
He aligned and pressed in, slow but unyielding, stretching me until I gasped. Inch by inch he filled me, until there was no more room and I let out a quick involuntary squeal.
“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back, deeper.
The desk shook. I braced harder, knuckles whitening. Again—out, then in, establishing a rhythm that forced my eyes to roll back. Each thrust landed harder, the slap of flesh drowned only by our ragged breaths and the low creak of wood.
His hand slid up my spine, fisting in my hair, arching my back so he could watch himself driving into me.
“So tight for me.” Thrust. “So wet.” Thrust. “You’re mine.” Thrust.
His words lit sparks everywhere under my skin. Pleasure coiled low, tightening with each push.
I moaned—wordless, raw—meeting every stroke.
His hand left my hair, slid around to where we joined, fingers circling my clit in tight, deliberate patterns. Sensation shot through me like sparks.
My elbows buckled; only his grip at my hips kept me from collapsing altogether.
His hand left my clit, only to grip my hip tighter, anchoring me to the desk as his thrusts deepened.
The desk creaked beneath me, my breath scattering with every motion.
Then he stilled. Pulled out with a suctioned pop.
I made a sound—half protest, half question—but he was already tugging me upright, turning me with ease.
His fingers found the back of my dress, unzipping in one clean motion. The fabric slid from my shoulders like it had been made for him to take off.
He let it fall. His eyes tracked the path as it pooled at my feet.
Then his hands were on my waist again, lifting—effortless, decisive—and setting me on the desk, this time facing him.
My thighs parted around his hips. My back met the cool surface, and I leaned into it, chest rising with the weight of anticipation.
He stood still for a moment, just looking down at me.
Then his fingers went to his shirt buttons—slow, sure, one by one. Each movement deliberate.
When he slid it off, the sleeves rustled softly. He let it fall behind him, bare skin catching the afternoon light that spilled through the window.
I drank him in. The tension in his shoulders. The marks I’d left earlier on his neck. The rigid line of control that still hadn’t snapped.
He stepped between my legs, cock still slick and hard, and I reached for him—but he caught my wrist. Pressed it to the desk above my head. Rough and firm.
He didn’t speak. Just held my gaze as he guided himself back inside me, slow at first.
A stretch, a slide, a claiming.
My breath stuttered.
He moved with purpose—deep and controlled. His hand still wrapped around my wrist, the other gripping the edge of the desk beside my head.
Every movement was a choice. Measured. No rush. No words.
My thighs wrapped around his waist. I arched into him.
The room faded. There was only him. The heat building again. The soft slap of skin. The ragged edge of breath between us.
I reached for his shoulder, but again he caught me—pinning both wrists above my head this time. His palm pressed flat against mine. Fingers curled between my fingers.
His mouth hovered just over mine.
I felt him everywhere. The weight of him inside me. The restraint in his muscles. The fire in his eyes.
He thrust again—slower this time, but deeper. My back arched off the desk, the edge pressing into my shoulder blades. The way he moved wasn't rushed. It was deliberate, like he was learning something with every pass. The drag of him out, the push back in. Each stroke built on the last.
I couldn’t move. Not really. His hands had mine locked in place above my head. His body kept me pinned. I was open. Exposed. And he looked down like he meant to memorize every reaction I gave him.
I tightened around him. His jaw flexed, a sound catching low in his throat. His rhythm faltered just once, and the next thrust was harder. Not punishing—just needed. Like it cost him something not to give in completely.
He pressed his forehead to mine again, breathing through his nose, steady and close.
“You’re mine.”
I shifted beneath him, trying to lift my hips higher. He grunted and grabbed my thigh, dragging my leg up over his shoulder. The angle changed everything. The next thrust made me gasp. Then another. I was trembling.
“Say it,” he said against my cheek. Not a demand—just something he needed.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
He let go of my hands. They fell limply to the desk. I didn’t use them. Couldn’t. Everything in me was caught on the rhythm of him pounding me.
He kissed me. Open mouth, tongue slow, like it mattered more than anything else. Then his hand wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. Holding me still while he watched me come apart for him.
My thighs shook and I clenched around him as the heat inside me snapped, white-hot and flooding. My whole body arched, mouth open but silent. He didn’t stop. He stayed with me, chased it, fucked through it.
I felt him swell. His thrusts turned ragged. He pressed in all the way, hips flush to mine, and came—deep and full, his body shaking against mine as he buried it deep inside me.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing. His weight on top of me. His hand loosening on my throat, then sliding up to cup my jaw.
He didn’t move to pull out. Just rested there. Still inside me, still holding me like I was the only thing tethering him to the room.