6. Celine #2
I can hear how wet I am with every thrust of his fingers, the obscene sound mixing with the rain.
Zane lifts his head from my breast, lips brushing my ear. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice dark. “Let me feel how much you need this.”
I hate how easily he pulls reactions from my body.
I hate how good his hands feel, how precisely he seems to know exactly where to touch me.
My hips roll against his fingers, chasing the pleasure even as my mind fights it.
He adds a third finger, stretching me wider, fucking me deeper with steady, confident strokes while his mouth returns to my neck, sucking a mark into the skin just below my jaw.
My breathing comes faster, ragged. Sweat is already beginning to bead along my spine. Every thrust of his fingers sends sparks racing through my body. My legs feel weak, barely holding me up against the wall as he works me closer and closer to the edge with nothing but his hand.
Zane pulls his fingers out suddenly, leaving me empty and throbbing.
Before I can protest, he hooks both hands under my ass and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries me the few steps to the bed and drops me onto the mattress.
He follows immediately, covering me with his much larger body, the weight of him pressing me down into the sheets.
His mouth finds mine again, deep and hungry, while his hands shove my shorts and underwear down my legs in one rough pull. I kick them off the rest of the way.
When he settles between my thighs, the hard length of him presses against me through his pants, thick and insistent. I roll my hips up, grinding against him, desperate for more.
He pulls back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. I watch the movement of his shoulders and back, the way the muscles shift under his skin as he drops his pants and boxer briefs to the floor.
His cock is already fully hard. The sight sends another rush of heat through me even as resentment curls tight in my chest.
Zane climbs back over me, caging me in with his arms. He grips my thigh, spreading me wider, and lines himself up.
The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and insistent.
He doesn’t rush. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, letting me feel every thick stretch until my breath catches and my nails dig into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” I breathe, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
He stills for a second, buried deep, letting me adjust to the fullness.
Then he starts to move. Long, powerful strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside me.
His hips roll with control, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he fucks me.
Each thrust is deep and deliberate, driving me harder into the mattress.
The wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the room, louder than the rain.
I hate how good it feels. I hate how easily my body opens for him, how my legs wrap tighter around his waist like they belong there. He shifts his angle, hitting deeper, and a sharp cry escapes me.
Zane’s hand slides under my ass, lifting my hips to meet every thrust. His other hand braces beside my head, muscles flexing as he keeps his weight from crushing me completely.
He fucks me harder. The bed creaks under us.
Sweat slicks our skin where we press together.
I can feel the strength in his body, the way he holds me exactly where he wants me while driving into me with a steady, punishing rhythm.
My breasts bounce with every impact. My clit grinds against his pelvis on each downstroke, sending sparks shooting through me.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and rough near my ear.
I don’t want to, but I lift my eyes anyway. His face is inches above mine, jaw tight, eyes dark with lust. He watches me like he’s memorizing every reaction, every gasp, every time my mouth falls open when he hits that perfect spot.
I feel myself starting to spiral. The pressure builds fast and overwhelming. My thighs shake around his hips. Zane senses it and angles his thrusts even deeper, grinding against my clit with every stroke.
I come hard, clenching around his cock, a broken moan tearing from my throat as pleasure crashes through me in heavy waves. He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, drawing it out until my vision blurs and my fingers claw at his back.
Only then does he let himself go. His rhythm turns rougher, less controlled. His breathing grows ragged against my neck. With a deep groan, he buries himself to the hilt and comes, pulsing hot and thick inside me. His body shudders over mine, strong arms trembling slightly from the force of it.
For a long moment, we stay locked together, breathing hard. The rain continues its steady rhythm against the glass.
Then the urgency breaks.
Zane pulls out, and I feel the loss immediately, the warm trickle of his release between my thighs. He shifts his weight off me but doesn’t leave.
Instead, he lies beside me and pulls me against his chest without asking. One large hand strokes slowly down my back, soothing the places he gripped too hard. His other hand brushes damp hair from my forehead with surprising tenderness.
I lie there stiff at first, my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down. His skin is warm, slightly damp with sweat. He smells like sex and the faint trace of his cologne. His fingers keep moving in slow circles along my spine, gentle in a way that feels dangerous.
I hate him for this too.
For fucking me like he owns me and then holding me like he cares.
My eyes stay open, and I focus on the rain, on the heavy arm draped across my waist, on the complicated ache between my legs and deeper in my chest.
Zane’s breathing evens out beside me. He stays.
I do not sleep.