31. Cassie #2
He growls, his thighs tensing as I work him harder, bobbing my head fast now, one hand gripping his base, twisting, stroking in rhythm with every desperate, sloppy suck.
The power coils low in my belly, watching him unravel, this man the world fears, reduced to shaking for my mouth, holding on by a thread.
“Goddamn…fuck,” he bites out, his hips jerking.
I hum around him, cheeks hollowing, spit dripping down my chin as I take him deep, again, again, loving the choked sound that tears from his throat.
His grip tightens, yanking my head back just as his body locks up, every muscle trembling with restraint.
“Stop,” he snarls. “If you want me inside you—fuck—stop now.”
His cock pulses against my lips, so close, so wrecked, but I obey, pulling off slowly, licking the head just to tease him one last time.
The look on his face? Possession. Pure, filthy, desperate possession.
“Table,” he growls, grabbing my wrist. “Now.”
And I already know—this is gonna hurt in all the best ways.
Still on my knees, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smirking up at him.
I rise, but before I can climb onto the table, his hands are on me, spinning me around, bending me over the edge, my cheek flush to the cold felt, my dress shoved to my waist in seconds.
“No panties?” His voice is rough, nearly breaking. His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me soaked and ready. “Fuck, Cass. You like to be a tease, don’t you?”
I glance over my shoulder, flashing him a wicked smile, breathless. “Maybe.”
Then his palm cracks across my ass—sharp, rough, the sting blooming through my skin, making me gasp.
“Smart mouth,” he groans, gripping my hips, yanking me back against him and grinding his cock along my soaked folds.
His hands slide down, strong fingers gripping my inner thighs, shoving my legs wider, forcing me open, exposed, trembling against the table.
“Wider.”
I stretch for him, heart hammering, body burning as he spreads me for his ruin.
His fingers sink inside me without warning, two, then three, fucking me rough with his hand as his thumb circles my clit, slow and lethal.
“Dante,” I gasp, hips rolling, my body chasing more, the pressure coiling tight in my belly.
“What, Cass?” he taunts, voice sharp, fingers curling inside me.
“I need you,” I whimper. “Please.”
His fingers withdraw, and I groan at the loss, but then I feel him, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, teasing, heavy.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, running his hand over the curve of my ass, down between my legs, fingers gliding through the slick mess I’ve made for him. “You’re soaked. All this for me?”
I nod, wrecked, shaking, pressing back against his hand, desperate for more, for all of him.
“Then take every inch,” he snarls, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing to my entrance, teasing—just for a second—before he pushes in just enough to make me ache.
“Yes.” My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. “God, yes.”
He thrusts forward, burying himself deep, stretching me wide, filling me completely, the delicious edge between pain and bliss making my vision blur.
“Christ,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”
He stills, letting me adjust, my body pulsing, stretched, full. Then he starts to move, slow, brutal, deep thrusts that have me gasping, legs trembling, my cheek pressed to the table as the storm outside matches our rhythm.
The table creaks beneath us, skin slapping, our moans filling the space.
I rise onto my elbows, changing the angle, nearly crying out when he hits that spot deep inside me that has my vision fracturing at the edges.
“There?” His voice is pure wreckage, slamming into me again, hitting that perfect place.
“God—yes,” I gasp, grinding back against him, chasing every punishing thrust. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
His pace turns savage, hips snapping, one hand gripping my hair, tugging just enough to arch my back, forcing my body open for him.
“Mine,” he snarls, the word jagged, raw, dangerous. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I cry, my walls clenching, my orgasm building fast, impossible to outrun. “Always yours.”
His hand snakes down, fingers finding my clit, circling in perfect rhythm as he fucks me harder, deeper, until the pressure explodes, and I come apart—body locking down, stars bursting behind my eyelids, his name ripped from my throat.
I barely register him slamming into me one last time, groaning my name like a prayer, his release hot, deep, all inside me.
We stay like that, gasping, shaking, his chest pressed to my back, the storm easing outside, replaced by the sound of our ragged breathing.
Finally, he pulls out, helping me stand on shaky legs, scooping me into his arms, carrying me to the couch.
We collapse together, tangled up like threads. His lips press to my temple, his body wrapped around mine.
“I love you,” he whispers against my skin, the words rough, ruined, completely real. “I’d die for you.”
The air leaves my lungs. The storm’s gone, but the mark he leaves behind on my soul? Permanent.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.