Chapter 9 #3
He makes me wait. He drags the head of his cock through my folds, pressing against my clit, sliding back, pressing forward. The teasing is deliberate. He's making me wait because he can. The patience of a man who's hard enough to hurt and still not rushing has my thighs trembling.
"Alex." The word comes out closer to begging than I'd admit.
"Say it again."
"Alex. Please."
His hand grips my hip. "That's what I wanted to hear."
He pushes inside me from behind, slow, one long relentless stroke that stretches me until I'm gasping into the pillow.
He's thick enough that the stretch borders on too much, and the pressure of him sends a tremor through my thighs.
His hand fists in my hair and pulls my head back, arching my spine.
"Feel that," he says against my ear. "All of me. That's what you've been running from."
I can't speak. There's nothing left but the fullness of him, the angle, his hand in my hair and his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. He holds there, buried deep, letting me feel every inch while my body adjusts to the size of him.
Then he moves.
He pulls back slow and drives in hard. The first real thrust pushes the air out of my lungs. He pauses, lets me feel the absence, then fills me again harder. The second stroke sends a tremor through my whole body.
He sets a pace that's slow enough to feel every inch of him sliding out, fast enough on the return that the impact rocks me forward on my knees. The rhythm of it builds a heat in my belly that spreads through my hips and down my thighs.
"Harder," I say into the pillow.
"Not yet." His voice is strained. The restraint is visible in the grip on my hip, the tension in his forearm. He's holding back because he wants to, not because he has to, and the control drives me crazier than the force would.
When he finally gives me what I asked for, the shift is immediate. The rhythm goes from measured to relentless. Each stroke hits deep, tears a moan out of me that I can't hold back.
His grip shifts on my hip. He changes the angle, tilts my hips higher, and the next stroke hits so deep my whole body locks. My hands fist in the sheets and the sound that comes out of me is closer to a scream than anything I've ever made during sex.
"There," he says against my neck. "Right there."
He keeps that angle. Every thrust hits the same spot and the pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. My back arches deeper, pressing against his chest, and the sweat between our bodies makes every point of contact slide and burn.
He wraps one arm across my chest, pinning my back against him, holding me upright on my knees while his hips drive into me from behind.
The new position takes him deeper. His mouth finds the side of my neck, teeth scraping, tongue following, and his free hand grips my jaw, turning my face toward him.
He kisses me over my shoulder, messy and consuming, swallowing every sound I make while he fucks me at an angle that has my legs shaking.
"You feel that?" he says against my mouth. "You feel what you do to me?"
The strain in his arms is visible. The power in his hips drives through me with every stroke. His cock hits a place inside me that sends sparks up my spine, and the effort it takes for him to hold his rhythm tells me exactly how close he is to losing control.
His hand slides from my jaw down to my front, his fingers finding my clit while he fucks me from behind. My whole body clenches around the dual sensation.
"Alex." His name comes out broken.
"I know." His rhythm holds steady. His fingers keep going. "I can feel you getting close. Let me feel it."
His fingers circle my clit in tight, relentless strokes that match the rhythm of his hips.
The pressure builds from the base of my spine, climbing higher with every thrust. His breathing goes ragged against my neck.
His control is fraying, and the knowledge that I'm the one fraying it pushes me to the edge.
"Let go," he says against my shoulder. "Give it to me."
I come with his name on my lips, his hand in my hair pulling me back so he can hear it. The orgasm tears through me in waves, deeper than the first, and he fucks me through every one. My body clenches around him and his grip on my hip goes bruising.
His rhythm breaks. He drives deep and holds there, as deep as he can get. He comes with a sound against my shoulder that's low, wrecked, and mine. I earned it.
Neither of us moves for a long time.
He rolls to his side and pulls me with him. His arm lies heavy across my waist. His breathing slows against the back of my neck. His hand rests flat against my stomach, palm warm, fingers spread.
There are no questions, no reassurance, no performance. He holds me with the weight of a man who is exactly where he wants to be.
The bruise aches under his forearm. I don't move his arm.
Outside the window, the ridge is white against a gray sky. The pass will open soon. The road will be clear. The bag is on the floor by my bed and my boots are pointed at the door.
I close my eyes against his shoulder and let his breathing slow mine. The exits are where they've always been. I'm choosing not to count them.