Chapter 8 #2
“Owen—”
He’s not gentle now, not even close.
His fingers pump in and out, stroking that exact spot that makes me see stars, circling just right.
Fuck.
“Yes, Owen—please—Jesus—God—”
“You want to come again already?” His voice is low, mocking, hungry. “You that fucking needy? Or just that honest?”
Finally, I choke on a sob and nod.
“Yes.”
He grins. It’s slow and dark.
“Earn it, then.”
“What—?”
He releases my wrists and drags me upright. My legs are trembling, but I don’t care.
He shoves the rest of my clothes down, stripping me bare under his gaze.
“On your knees,” he whispers. “Right here.” He points to the little throw rug in front of the fire.
I scramble. Flushed. Dripping. Desperate.
“Put your hands behind your back. Arch it. Show me those pretty little tits. Let me see how good you can be.”
He’s still fully dressed—just jeans and a T-shirt—and I’m stark naked, kneeling, with the fire behind me. Him in front.
The second I obey, he steps forward and unbuckles his belt. My eyes go wide.
“You like that?” he whispers. “You want to feel my leather across your arse?”
“Oh god, no,” I say—but it comes out like a question. Like maybe I do.
He grins.
“Of course it would hurt. But the most delicious kind of pain… isn’t it?”
“I-I wouldn’t know,” I whisper.
He pulls the belt free, loops it in his palm, and gives my ass a light thwack.
Heat floods me. The pain dissolves instantly into something hotter.
My god, that would be hot.
Yes.
Yes, that would.
Then he unzips his jeans, and his cock springs free—thick, long, and flushed with arousal.
I lick my lips without meaning to. He fists his thick cock, using slow and cruel strokes with lazy confidence.
Unblocking my ability to write? Oh, fuck yes.
“Open that pretty mouth.”
I part my lips as he steps closer. His cock presses to my tongue, and then he slides in slowly, deliberately, making me take every heavy inch.
My throat stretches. My jaw aches. I gag the second he hits the back of my throat, but I don’t blink.
He doesn’t flinch. His eyes lock on mine and hold, and he doesn’t thrust or rush.
He just stays there, thick and deep, watching me.
"I’ve imagined this," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "Your lips around my cock, your eyes glossy, your cheeks flushed."
Tears sting the corners of my eyes as he cups the back of my head. I suck. I nod. I ache. Heat blooms through my core, wild and wicked.
I can’t imagine he wanted me like this—on my knees, mouth stretched around him, used. He wanted me in the worst, filthiest ways. And now he has me, just like this. Fuck yes.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, finally moving. He’s thrusting slowly—steady and deep. I’m so full of him. “You’re going to choke on me. Come now. Take it.”
And I do. I moan around him, spit spilling from the corners of my mouth, wet and messy. He thrusts in and out, over and over, and I suck, moan, worship the sound of him unraveling. My hand finds his balls, cups them gently, and he lets out a deep groan.
God, I love that sound. I live for it.
“I’m going to fucking come,” he growls in my ear. “Jesus, you make me lose all self-control.”
I grin around his cock, holding his gaze, and suck harder.
“Now,” he hisses. “I want inside you. Don’t want to come in your mouth. Not this time.”
And when he pulls out, I’m trembling.
“Back on the couch,” he says, quiet but firm. I scramble into place without a thought. No hesitation. He doesn’t wait—doesn’t give me a breath—just flips me onto my stomach, hauls my hips up, and spreads me open like a promise.
My mind keeps spinning in a crazy loop, over and over again… Owen. This is Owen.
Owen wants you.
Owen owns you.
“I want to come in your pussy, and you’re going to come on my cock,” he whispers. “Do you understand me? And then again. And again. Until you’re crying for me, begging me to stop.”
Never. It’ll never happen. But I don’t say it. I don’t give him that. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“I’m on birth control,” I tell him instead. It feels like the right thing to say
“Good girl,” he growls.
Right. Good. Something buried deep inside me, the part of me that’s been ashamed and belittled, comes back to life at his praise.
He presses the thick head of his cock to my entrance, teasing, stroking.
Owen, this is OWEN.
If it were anyone else, I’d be asking questions. Has he been tested? Can I trust him? But this isn’t anyone else. This is Owen. My Owen.
“Do you want this, baby?” he whispers, and my body clenches.
“Yes,” I sob. “God, Owen, please.”
One brutal thrust—he’s inside.
I exhale.
He fills me to the hilt, and my scream tears the air. It’s perfection—raw, primal, filthy perfection. He fucks me hard and fast, his grip tight on my hips, dragging me back to meet every brutal, punishing thrust.
I’m so full, stretched wide around him.
And he’s right. I’ll never forget what got me here. Not ever.
“You’re soaked,” he growls. “So fucking tight. Made for me. Jesus, you’re perfect. So made for me. Take it, baby.”
I can’t think. I can’t speak. I just moan, whimper, and do what he says—take it.
And then his fingers find my clit again, and that’s it.
I shatter. I scream. My back arches as I come around him, pulsing and gasping, and he doesn’t stop, just keeps going.
Keeps thrusting. Keeps rubbing. Keeps me right there—overstimulated and mindless.
“Give me another one, Emma,” he growls. His palm slaps my ass, sharp and arousing. “You fucking will.”
And I do.
The second orgasm hits like a freight train, fierce and relentless, dragged out until I’m sobbing into the couch cushions, my legs trembling, barely able to hold me up. When he finally slows, he leans over me, mouth hot against my spine, kissing his way down to my shoulder.
“We’re not done yet,” he whispers.
“Not until you’ve come with me inside you. Wrapped around me. While I spill every fucking drop of my cum in you. Do you understand me?”
I whimper and nod.
“Get on your back. One more,” he says with conviction, like it’s his personal mission in life to eek every orgasm he can out of me, before he flips me on my back like I weigh nothing. He slides back in with a low groan and starts again—slow, deep, hitting every single nerve in my body.
Possessive.
“I’m going to train you so I can come in your arse,” he murmurs. “You’ll take me, Em. Now come with me.”
I meet his gaze—raw, undone, and desperate. Jesus. He kisses me and cradles my face like it’s breakable.
And when we come together, it’s everything. It’s utter fucking perfection.