War Room #3
He pushed into me slowly at first, because he was large enough that slowly mattered. My body stretched around him from behind, taking him inch by inch, and the fullness built until my arms nearly buckled against the table.
The sound left me before I could stop it.
His pleasure struck me at the same time mine struck him. He groaned and pushed deeper.
“Fuck me,” I said.
He drove the rest of the way in, burying himself fully inside me, and I gasped as the table took my weight and his hand tightened at my waist.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he started to fuck me. Hard.
Both his hands were on me. One gripped my waist, holding me exactly where he wanted me. The other slid over my hip, then lower, fingers spreading over my ass as he drove into me from behind.
He stood over me, broad and steady and fully in control, using his hands to keep me open to him as his body struck mine.
Each thrust drove him deep, his muscular body striking against my ass with a force that made the table creak beneath me. I felt all of it—his hunger, his satisfaction, the fierce pleasure of having me bent over beneath him still half dressed, my pants tangled around one ankle.
I clung to the table.
My entire world compressed to the rhythm of his body behind mine, the heavy oak beneath my hands, the rough sound of his breathing, the wet slide of him moving in and out of me.
Every thrust pulled another sound from me.
I stopped trying to control them. There was no point.
He could feel what he was doing to me. He knew exactly how much I wanted it.
And he liked knowing.
His hand slid up my spine, then into my hair, not pulling hard, just enough to arch me back into him.
“You spent that entire meeting wanting to bend me over something,” I said.
“Meghan,” he growled.
He drove into me harder.
The bond flooded with him—desire, pride, possession, pleasure so intense it blurred the edges of my own. His control had unraveled. I could feel how close he was, how badly he wanted to cum inside me, how much the wanting itself was undoing him.
His hands tightened at my waist.
“Inside me,” I said. “Flood me.”
That broke something in him.
He thrust into me once, twice, then held himself buried as deep as he could go. His body went rigid behind mine, and I felt the first hard pulse of him before my own body understood what was happening.
Then I felt it everywhere.
The heat of him. The release. The deep, claiming satisfaction that moved through him and into me as he filled me, his chest pressed to my back, his breath rough and unsteady against my neck. His orgasm struck me. Pleasure and helpless release pouring into me all at once.
My body answered the sensation before I had any chance to prepare for it. I tightened around him in a helpless pulse, then another, pleasure gathering low and deep until my breath caught and would not come back properly.
It did not tear through me all at once. It took me apart in waves.
My hips pressed back against him without permission. My hands flattened against the table. I clenched around him again, harder this time, and the orgasm rolled through me until my legs trembled.
I cried out into the oak, still taking him, still feeling every pulse of him inside me.
He was still cumming, still buried inside me from behind, and every pulse of him drove the pleasure deeper. My hands locked on the table. I shook through it, helpless and open and undone, taking his release and my own at the same time.
He groaned against my neck, rough and unsteady, and held me there while both of us came apart.
For a long moment afterward, neither of us moved. He stayed inside me, still half dressed, his trousers low on his hips, my pants caught around one ankle, the room warm around us and the evidence of what he had done beginning to slip down my thigh.
His hand moved gently along my side.
He bent over me, still inside me, his chest warm against my back.
His mouth found the side of my neck first, then my jaw, then the corner of my mouth when I turned my face toward him.
The kiss was slower than the taking had been.
It was breathless and damp with sweat, his mouth moving against mine while the last aftershocks still moved through us.
I lowered my cheek to the table and breathed through what was left of the pleasure.
Skip slid an arm beneath me and lifted me off the table. My arms went around his neck. He kissed me before he carried me anywhere. We were still breathless, still damp with sweat, and his mouth claimed mine as if even the few steps to the bed were too long to wait.
The ease of it sent a fresh rush of heat through me. I was still half dressed, still breathless, still wet with him, and he picked me up as if taking me to bed was not a question but a command.
He carried me to the bed and set me down. His hands went to my shirt with intention. He stripped it from me slowly enough that I felt the change in him—the sharp edge of needing me giving way to the deeper pleasure of having me.
My pants were already gone. He removed the last of them from my ankle and dropped them beside the bed.
Then he looked at me. All of me.
The war could have us again soon. For now, he had me naked in our bed.
And he was not finished.