Chapter 23 #2
I gasp into his mouth, tasting salt, heat, and something purely him, arching into him with greedy desperation.
His hands are everywhere—rough, certain, claiming.
They slide up the flat of my stomach and grip my waist hard enough to leave bruises.
He tugs at the hem of my shirt until the fabric peels away, sticky with sweat.
Inch by inch, he bares me, impatient, until the shirt’s gone completely and I’m left raw under his stare.
His calloused fingers slip beneath my sports bra, searing hot against damp skin, and I bite back a moan when his thumb skims the underside of my breast.
“Emilio—” His name tears from me, pleading, breathless.
He doesn’t give me the chance to say more.
His mouth abandons mine to trail fire down my throat, biting, sucking until sharp pain blooms into aching pleasure.
His hand cups me through the bra, squeezing hard, before he shoves the fabric aside and takes my nipple into his mouth.
The scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet drag of his tongue, is unbearable in the best way, and a strangled cry rips free before I can stop it.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps when he finally lets go, my nipple slipping wet from between his lips. His voice is shredded with need, ragged like it’s costing him to hold himself back. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”
My hands fumble desperately at his waistband, trembling with urgency.
But he beats me to it—shoving his shorts down far enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and hard, pre-cum already slick at the tip.
My hand closes around him instinctively, stroking, marveling at the heat and thickness.
His body shudders, his groan rumbling low in his chest.
His gaze drags down the length of me sprawled beneath him, then back up, hot and hungry. But something sharper flickers in his expression, darker.
He moves before I can think. One hand clamps around my wrists, pinning them above my head, the other snatches up my discarded shirt. In a single rough motion, he bunches the damp fabric and presses it hard against my mouth, stuffing it between my lips until my protest comes out muffled.
His eyes blaze, feral and possessive as he growls, low against my ear, “Your screams are mine and mine only. No one else gets to hear them. Not here. Not ever.”
The words hit harder than his grip, raw and absolute. The shirt muffles my gasp, turns it ragged, and somehow makes the fire inside me burn hotter. My body writhes under him, caught between desperation and surrender, and he feels it all.
His free hand yanks my shorts down in one brutal sweep, baring me to the cool air.
He shifts, the swollen head of his cock dragging through my folds, smearing my slick arousal.
Teasing, testing. I buck up instinctively, seeking more, but he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my spine.
“Yeah,” he rasps, pressing just enough to make me whimper into the gag. “That’s it. Beg me without words. Show me how bad you need it.”
I writhe against him, the gag swallowing the sounds I want to make.
My body does the pleading for me—hips snapping upward, thighs trembling, nails clawing at the back of his hands as if I can force him deeper.
He only presses the head harder against my entrance, circling cruelly slow, never breaking through.
Each brush makes me hotter, needier, until frustration burns through me like a fever.
“Good girl,” he growls, and then with one savage thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.
The stretch is sharp, exquisite, splitting me wide. My scream tears into the fabric gag, muffled and raw, my nails biting into his trapped hand. His cock fills me perfectly, painfully good, and every nerve in my body lights.
“Fuck,” he snarls, forehead pressed to mine, his grip punishing on my hip. “You feel so fucking good—so tight.”
He pulls back, then slams into me. Again and again.
Each thrust harder, deeper, until the mats beneath us squeak with the impact.
His rhythm builds fast, brutal, and relentless.
The obscene slap of our bodies collides with the slick drag of him inside me, filling the hollow gym with the sound of us.
Pinned beneath him, gag muffling my cries, I arch and writhe, every nerve ending lit.
His hand clamps my wrists tighter, and I strain in his grip, but the restraint only makes the heat coil tighter inside me.
I can’t get away, I don’t want to. His cock stretches me perfectly, hitting that spot over and over until my vision sparks white, his body driving mine into the mat.
His breath is ragged in my ear, hot and harsh. “That’s it, baby,” he growls, voice shredded with need. “Take me. Take all of me.”
His free hand slides down, thumb circling my clit in ruthless rhythm with his thrusts. The dual assault wrecks me.
Pressure builds quickly, unbearable, my thighs shaking around him.
I scream into the gag, high and muffled, my body arching as the orgasm slams into me.
It’s violent, tearing through me in waves that leave me shaking apart under his weight.
My pussy clenches tight around his cock, milking him, and he groans deep in his chest, guttural and raw.
“Fuck, Rae—” he rasps, driving harder, chasing it. “So fucking tight, so perfect.”
His thrusts grow ragged, desperate—each one harder, rougher—until with a final, guttural growl, he sheathes himself fully inside me and comes completely undone. His body shudders violently, every muscle locked tight as he spills deep, his moan fractured and raw where it muffles against my shoulder.
For a heartbeat, for several, everything goes still.
The only sound is the faint creak of the mats beneath us and the harsh drag of our breathing.
His weight bears down heavily, grounding me, pressing me so close I can feel the wild thunder of his heart, each frantic beat syncing with mine.
My lungs burn around the gag, each shallow breath scraping through me until at last he reaches up, grabs the damp shirt, and yanks it from my mouth. He tosses it aside carelessly.
I gulp down air greedily, each inhale shaky, like I’ve been underwater too long. My chest rises against his, trembling.
His lips brush my temple—soft, reverent, a stark contrast to the raw brutality from moments ago. “You okay?” he asks, voice rough, threaded with something gentler now.
I nod, my throat too tight for anything more.
He kisses me once, slow and steady, then carefully pulls out, leaving me sore and trembling in the aftermath.
His arms wrap around me instantly, pulling me tight against the heat of his sweat-slick chest. His palm strokes lazy circles into my back, steady and soothing, until my shivers start to ease.
“Good girl,” he mutters against my hair, his voice ragged but quiet. “So fucking good for me.”
We stay tangled on the mat longer than we should. The air is heavy, thick with sweat and the sharp musk of sex, clinging to my skin. The world outside these walls presses closer, reality reminding me how easily someone could walk in, how precarious this bubble we’ve built really is.
He moves first, his touch practical but tender.
With a careful hand, he adjusts the strap of my bra back into place, then tugs my shorts up over my hips with a quick, practiced tug, his knuckles brushing against my thigh.
There’s no rush in him, only care, as if making sure I feel put back together matters more than anything.
When we finally stand, my legs threaten to buckle beneath me, but his hand is there instantly, steadying me without a word.
He bends, scoops up both of our shirts from the mat, slings them over his shoulder, then threads his fingers through mine.
His grip is firm, warm, unshakable—leading me out of the heat and mess of the gym, still tethered to him.