3. Vaughn #3
I close my eyes. Lean forward, change the angle, and there it is — the right depth, the right pressure, his cock hitting the spot that makes my whole pelvis light up.
I work my hips through it, chasing it, and my rhythm stutters — I can feel it go uneven, and I don't care, because it's building too fast to manage.
I ride the peak. I come, hard, my hole clenching down on him in rhythmic waves, my cock spurting across his stomach and chest, thick ropes mixing with the bruises and the sweat, and the orgasm rolls through me in pulses that I can feel in my spine, in my teeth, in the soles of my feet.
I make a sound — I don't know what it sounds like, and I don't care — and I hold myself down on him as I finish, shaking, my hands braced on his chest.
His cock swells.
The knot begins.
I feel it immediately — the base thickening inside me, stretching me wider, the specific catch of it against my rim as the swell grows.
I've had it many times. I know what it's going to feel like.
But knowing and feeling are different things, and right now, in the aftermath of the orgasm, with my walls still pulsing, the stretch hits me like a second wave — deep, pressing, filling, and I breathe through it, sinking down harder, grinding, helping it seat.
My body opens around it, and then tightens, and then the lock catches.
Teddy makes a broken sound under me. His whole body is pulling against the restraints — really pulling, the leather creaking, the bench shifting on the floor — and he's still not coming, because I didn't tell him he could.
I can feel it in him, the need, the pressure, the alpha instinct screaming at him to let go, and he's holding it, he's holding all of it, and the muscles in his arms and chest and thighs are standing out like he's carrying a weight, and he is.
He's carrying the weight of not coming while his knot locks inside someone, and I don't know if I've ever seen anything like it.
The knot locks.
I feel the final pulse of it, the stretch reaching full, the lock setting, my walls clenching down around a base that can't withdraw, and I breathe out slow and let myself feel it.
This part is always good. The rush is warm and deep and settling, and I let my weight come down on him, let my body go soft in the places it's been held tight for the last hour.
Teddy is sobbing.
His cock is pulsing inside me — deep, involuntary pulses, the knot dragging the orgasm out of him the way it's meant to.
His body goes through it. I feel the rhythmic clench, the full muscular wave of climax rolling through his cock and his belly and his thighs.
But nothing releases. He comes dry, the reflex firing on empty, every contraction pulling at nothing, and the sound he makes is worse than pain.
His body trying to give him what it owes him and his training holding it back, the two of them tearing at each other while the knot holds and I breathe.
He's stuck.
I lean forward, slow, careful, because pulling would be bad for both of us now.
I put my face close to his. The mask against the mask, almost touching.
Not a kiss. I don't kiss anyway. I'm just close.
Close enough to feel his breath on my throat, ragged and hot, and close enough to smell the tears on his face, salt and alpha musk and the last fading trace of fresh bread.
"Shhh," I say, low. "Shhh, sweetheart. You did so well."
He sobs harder.
"You did so well. You're doing so well."
I stay there a moment, my face close to his, breathing with him.
The knot pulses steady inside me, and his cock pulses against it — a locked rhythm, his body and mine, stuck together.
His breathing is ragged. Mine is even, but only because I'm making it even, and the effort of that is more than I expected.
I sit back up. Settled astride him. The knot holds.
I trail one hand across his chest. The paddle bruise on his left pec is dark red at the center and violet at the edges, the clearest mark I've left on him all night. I trace the outline of it with two fingertips. Not tender. Just admiring my work.
He shudders under my hand. His cock throbs inside me — a thick, slow pulse that moves through my walls like a wave, and my breath catches on it, and I let it catch, because there's no one watching now and no one to perform for, and it feels good. It feels genuinely, genuinely good.
I'd take this one again.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I don't stop it — I just let it sit there, let me look at it, let me feel the weight of it.
I don't do that. I don't take anyone again.
But this one took everything I gave him and held it, and the way he looked at me while I was riding him — not through me, not past me, at me — is something I don't see.
That's not a reason to break a rule. But it's a reason the rule feels less like a wall and more like a door I could open if I chose to.
I close the door. For now.
I trace the bruise again. Watch him shiver. Feel his cock pulse inside me, steady, and my walls pulse back, and we sit there in the locked rhythm of it, and I'm in no hurry.
The knot will hold for at least another twenty minutes. He's earned what comes after.