4. Dante #2
Each stroke is measured, the drag of my cock inside her turning every thrust into an unspoken demand.
Her moans start soft, then sharpen as I slam into her again, and again, one hand fisting in the fabric at her waist, the other gripping her hair to pull her back just enough for her spine to curve deeper.
"Say it," I murmur, my breath hot against her neck. "Say you needed this."
She shakes her head at first, a flicker of pride.
So I grip her tighter and thrust harder, rougher, the sound of our bodies colliding echoing off the walls.
Her cry slips out then, broken and desperate.
"Say it," I repeat, lower now, into the place just behind her ear. "Or I stop."
She chokes on the words, but they come. "I needed it."
I groan, pleasure sparking low and hard in my spine, and I give her what she asked for.
The rhythm grows faster, deeper, the table rocking beneath us now, every slap of skin on skin making her body jolt forward, only to be caught again by my grip.
She’s drenched around me, each stroke a slick, searing drag that makes my jaw clench and my thighs tense.
And just when I feel her begin to rise again, that trembling in her legs, that helpless tilt of her hips—just when she’s on the edge—I tighten my grip on her ass, pull back slowly, then shove in deeper than before.
Her scream rips free, her body convulsing around me as the orgasm takes her again, harder this time.
Her thighs quiver, and then wet heat splashes down my pelvis, soaking both of us.
She’s never done that before.
I know it by the shock in her voice, by the way she tries to pull away, mortified.
"Fuck," I mutter, the word half prayer, half growl.
My hand flies to her ass, a sharp slap ringing out. "You’ll come when I tell you. And you won’t ever hide it from me again."
She moans through clenched teeth, her whole body quaking, and I don’t let her come down.
I grip her hips tighter and keep going, the wet drag inside her now so intense it feels like madness.
Each thrust is edged with that perfect ache, that maddening pressure.
Her cunt clenches around me, wet and pulsing, and it takes everything I have not to lose it too soon.
My breath is harsh now, the need crawling up my spine.
Her moans have turned into keening cries, her skin shining, her fingers white against the table’s edge.
I reach around to press against her swollen clit, and she jerks, almost collapsing forward, another wave of pleasure threatening to consume her. She’s too sensitive.
I don’t care.
"Now," I growl, slamming into her harder. "Turn around."
I pull out fast and flip her without waiting, her back hitting the table as I slide her down by the thighs, her legs spread wide, her eyes glassy and stunned as she tries to recover.
But I don’t give her the chance.
I’m going to fuck her all over again.
She’s trembling, but not with fear.
Not with weakness.
It’s the kind of tremble that lives between exhaustion and desire, the edge of something that’s been taken too far and still wants more.
I run my hand down her spine again, slow this time, fingers splayed, claiming each vertebra like it belongs to me.
Her skin is hot, damp, the silk of her dress bunched up at her waist.
I slide my other hand between her thighs, drag two fingers through the wet heat still dripping from her.
She whimpers when I touch her clit, too sensitive now, but I do it anyway—slow, lazy circles, making her twitch.
"You feel what you did to me?" I murmur, pressing the head of my cock against her soaked entrance. "You think I’m just going to let you walk away after this?"
She doesn’t answer.
She exhales, shaky, her body tilting back toward mine even as her fingers dig into the table again.
Good.
She’s ready.
I thrust into her in one hard, unrelenting stroke, the sound of it echoing off the glass walls around us, obscene and wet.
Her body tightens around me, and I groan low in my throat, the pressure finally tipping over from want to need.
"Fuck, Gianna."
Her name leaves my mouth like a curse, like a prayer.
She gasps, pushing back into me with a force that makes my thighs flex, makes my hand grip her hip hard enough to bruise.
I take her faster, deeper, each thrust driving the desk forward an inch, her breath breaking in soft cries.
Her cunt is drenched, clutching at me, velvet and heat and chaos.
I can feel her unraveling again.
She moans, louder now, no pride left in it, nothing but pleasure bordering on desperation.
"That’s it," I say, voice rough with the strain of holding back. "Give it to me. Show me how many times you can fall apart for me."
She’s falling.
I can feel it.
Her body tightens, legs shaking violently as she comes again, and this time it rips through her like a storm, her cry raw, broken, her cunt pulsing wildly around me as if she’s trying to keep me inside forever.
And it’s that—her breaking open like that—that undoes me.
I grab both hips and slam into her once, twice, and then I’m there, falling over the edge.
My release crashes through me with a groan torn from my chest, hips jerking as I empty into her in thick, pulsing waves, the tension finally giving way to a brutal, dizzying rush.
We stay like that, joined, shaking, breathing in tandem.
She collapses onto the desk, her back rising and falling in shallow pants.
I pull out slowly, watching the mess drip down her thighs.
Her body is a portrait of ruin and pride; flushed, trembling, but never bowing to anyone’s will.