9. Jade #2
"All of it," he says, and gives it to me.
He pushes in the rest of the way and seats himself fully and I cry out—loud, into the cellar air, my hands gripping the front of his shirt.
He's deeper than I have ever had anyone.
I feel him in places that have no name. Full and thick and seated hard against the end of me, and when I clench around him from the shock of it his jaw locks and a sound comes out of him, low, that he clearly didn't plan on.
"Okay?" he says.
"Don't you dare stop," I say.
He almost smiles.
He starts to move.
Not fast. He doesn't need fast. He pulls almost all the way out—and I whimper at the loss of him, actually whimper, a sound I have never made in my life—and then he pushes back in, full stroke, all the way home, and I feel every inch of that too.
My whole body rocks forward on the table.
His hands at my hips hold me where he put me.
I look at his face. He is watching mine.
"Look at how well you take me," he says. Low and certain. "Feel that?"
"Yes." My voice is wrecked already.
"Good." He pulls out and drives back in. "I want you to feel all of it."
He sets a pace—deep, thorough, full strokes—and my eyes want to close and he won't let them.
"Look at me," he says, the second time my eyelids start to drop. "Stay with me."
I stay with him.
I'm making sounds I won't be accountable for.
Short cries on each stroke when he hits deep.
Whimpers when he pulls out. Something low and continuous underneath all of it, my body's ongoing commentary on what is happening to it.
He is barely making any sound at all—just his breathing, controlled and rough, and those short low sounds when I clench around him that happen without him planning to.
I look at his shoulders.
The flannel is still on—he's still dressed and I'm bare on his table and somehow this makes everything worse—but I can see the shift of him under the fabric, the flex and work of him as he drives into me.
The width of his shoulders when he leans in.
The forearms, the ones I've been watching for two years over dinner, now gripping my hips as he fucks me.
He is so much bigger than me. I feel that with every stroke, the size of him filling me, the stretch that doesn't go away because he doesn't go shallow.
I look down between us.
His cock disappearing into me on each thrust. Glistening—slick with me, with how wet I am, the visual of it splitting me open almost more than I can hold. The thick of him. The way I stretch around him. I make a sound and look back at his face and he has been watching me look.
"That's what you do to me," he says. Low. Flat. A statement of fact.
He leans in. One hand stays at my hip and the other comes up to my face, tilts my chin up, and he kisses me.
Open-mouthed, deep, his tongue against mine while he keeps moving inside me. I kiss him back and cry out into his mouth when he drives deep, and he swallows the sound and does it again. His hand at my jaw, his cock in my pussy, his mouth on mine, all of it at once—I grip his collar and hold on.
He breaks the kiss to put his mouth at my throat. Teeth and tongue, not gentle, and I gasp and tilt my head back and he marks me there, deliberately, while he fucks me in slow deep strokes.
"Cormac—"
"I know," he says against my throat. He comes back to my mouth. Kisses me again. Drives deep while he does it and I whimper into him.
When he lifts his head his eyes are dark.
"How does that feel?" he says.
"Incredible." Not a performance. Just the truth. "It feels incredible."
"Good," he says. "I want you to feel every bit of this."
He puts his hand on my breast. Cups it in his palm and rolls his thumb across the nipple and the sensation goes straight down, a line of heat from his thumb to where he's buried inside me. I clench around him hard. He makes that sound again—the low, unplanned one—and his grip tightens.
"Do that again," he says.
I do it again.
His jaw sets. He drives in deeper and stays there, fully seated, and rolls his hips against me—a grind, slow and deliberate, not a stroke. I feel him everywhere at once. The stretch of him. The pressure. His pelvis against my clit. I cry out and both my hands go to his shoulders.
"There," he says. "Right there."
He does it again. And again. The grind instead of the stroke, his cock seated all the way inside me and moving in circles, and I start to shake.
"You feel incredible," he says quietly. "So tight. So wet." His thumb again across my nipple. "Feel like you were made for this."
I whimper.
"You were," he says. Like he's confirming something. "I've known that for two years."
He goes back to full strokes and I'm loud with each one, past caring about the house above us or the barrel room on the other side of the door.
I look at the flex of his forearms where they bracket me.
I look down between us again—his cock slick and glistening with me, the visual of the stretch each time he pulls back, the way I close around him when he seats himself fully.
I have had sex with a condom every single time in my adult life.
I have never seen a man's bare cock moving inside me. I have never felt this.
"Look at that," he says, quietly.
He means the same thing I'm looking at.
"I can feel you," I say. "I can actually—there's nothing—I can feel you."
"Yes," he says.
"Ryan never?—"
"I know." His hips drive forward and I cry out. "I'm going to make sure you don't forget the difference."
He's in his flannel shirt in his cellar, my ex-boyfriend's father, and he is fucking me on his tasting table with his bare cock and no apology, no distance, and every time he pushes home I feel the pulse of him against my walls and my own pulse answering it.
The stretch hasn't gone away and I don't want it to. I want to feel this for days.
I start to lose the thread. My thighs are shaking. My hands grip his shoulders and slip and grip again. Every sound I make is louder than the one before it.
He reaches between us. His thumb finds my clit.
"No—" I start.
"Yes," he says.
"I can't?—"
"You can." He keeps moving. Thumb and cock together and his eyes on my face and his voice low and certain: "Going to make you come on me. Want to feel you."
"Cormac—"
"Come on my cock," he says. "Let me feel it."
The orgasm starts to build and I grab at it and pull back and it builds anyway, his thumb relentless and his cock deep and the transgression of all of it pressing in from every side—Ryan's father, my ex-boyfriend's father, the man who set a place at his table before I knocked on his door, who replaced his guest room linens and started the braise and has been deciding about me for two years while I pretended not to notice.
"How wet you are," he says, low, still moving. "Can you feel how wet you are for me?"
I can feel it. I can hear it, the slick sounds of him moving inside me, my wetness on his cock, inside my pussy, on my thighs, on the table.
"I've been thinking about this for two years," he says. "Thinking about how wet you'd be. How good you'd feel." His thumb circles. His cock drives deep. "Better than I thought."
"Cormac—"
"Say it," he says. "Say what you want."
"Your cum." It comes out in pieces. "I want your cum inside me—bare, fill me up—I want you to breed me, please?—"
"I'm going to fill you up," he says. Still flat, still certain, the promise in his voice more absolute for being said quietly. "Going to put my cum so deep inside you, you'll feel it for days."
"Please—"
"Breed you right," he says. "That's what's going to happen."
I come apart.