10. Tyler #3
"Mine," I grind out against her throat. The wet, slapping sound of my hips against hers swallows the word.
The physical sensation is blinding. The tight, wet friction of her walls dragging up and down the length of my shaft is pulling me rapidly toward the edge of an explosive climax. Every time I bottom out inside her, the ache in my balls tightens, the primitive breeding instinct demanding I fill her.
Behind the counter, the music abruptly stops.
The final note of the Fleetwood Mac track fades into silence. The needle hits the runout groove at the center of the vinyl record.
Tch-tch. Tch-tch. Tch-tch.
The rhythmic, repetitive scratching of the needle circling the empty groove fills the hollow shop.
The sound synchronizes perfectly with the brutal rhythm of my hips.
Tch-tch. I drag my cock out. Tch-tch. I slam deep into her slick pussy. Tch-tch. The wet slap of my pelvis hitting hers.
I refuse to lift the needle. I refuse to break the rhythm. I let the empty space play, filling the silent void with the raw, obscene sounds of our claiming.
"Tyler!" she screams, her voice cracking, wrecked by the relentless pounding. "Tyler, please! I can't—I'm going to—"
"Cum for me," I roar, my voice booming in the dark space. I drop both my hands to her hips, pinning her bare ass flat against the edge of the wood so she can’t retreat an inch. "Take every fucking inch of it and shatter for me. Now."
I increase the speed of my thrusts to a blinding blur. The friction is a fire burning between our bodies. I grind my pubic bone viciously against her swollen clit, mashing the sensitive flesh while my thick cock stretches her tight walls to the breaking point.
Wendy’s body goes rigid.
Her spine locks. Her head snaps back. A deafening cry tears out of her throat as the orgasm hits her with the force of a physical collision.
Her pussy walls clamp down violently around the thick length of my cock. The tight, spasming muscles milk my shaft with agonizing pressure. The internal contractions are ruthless, squeezing the sensitive head, dragging the climax out of my balls.
The sensation of her orgasm milking my cock snaps the last thread of my sanity.
I roar, a deep, guttural sound of pure victory, and drive my hips forward one final, catastrophic time. I bury my cock to the hilt, pressing my pelvis flush against hers, crushing her clit under my weight.
My balls clench tight.
I pump a boiling jet of thick seed into the deepest part of her womb.
The physical release is an explosive, blinding relief. I groan aggressively, my jaw locking tight as a second jet of cum blasts deep inside her. Then a third. I empty my balls, flooding her tight, slick walls with my fated claim, marking her from the inside out.
My cock pulses with every jet, locked deep inside her.
Her cunt squeezes me through every contraction, drawing the climax out of my balls in slow, brutal waves.
I shudder against her throat. My forehead drops to the curve of her shoulder.
I bite the soft skin there—gentle, marking, claiming—riding the slow descent down from the peak with my mouth open against her pulse.
The sheer force of the climax leaves me shaking. The aggression slowly bleeds out of my muscles, replaced by a suffocating possessiveness.
I don’t pull out.
I refuse to break the connection. I stay buried deep inside her tight, pulsing pussy. My thick cock remains hard, wedged deep in her wet heat.
I drop my upper body forward. I rest my sweaty forehead against the crook of her neck. My broad chest crushes against her bare breasts. Our skin is slick with sweat, sticking together in the cold air of the empty shop.
Wendy’s arms come up, wrapping tightly around my wide back. Her fingers trace the muscles of my shoulders, her touch grounding me to the reality of the present moment. Her chest heaves against mine. The ragged, exhausted sound of her breathing is the most beautiful noise I’ve ever heard.
I drag one hand up her bare back. My palm tracks the slick line of sweat from her hipbone to her shoulder blades.
My other hand stays locked at her hip, holding her flush against me, keeping our bodies sealed together.
The cold air of the empty shop pebbles her skin.
I shift my chest closer, sharing the heat.
She makes a small, ruined sound against my neck.
I press my mouth to her temple. The clean salt of her sweat coats my lips.
The turntable continues to spin behind the counter. The needle continues to scratch the empty runout groove. Tch-tch. Tch-tch.
The shop is officially dead. The legacy is in the cardboard boxes stacked by the door. The physical trap of Crimson Hollow is broken.
I press my lips against the rapid pulse beating in the side of her neck. The sweet musk of her sweat fills my lungs. The deep-cover operative belongs to the club. The ghost named Tom belongs to the dust of this decaying town.
But the man standing in the dark, buried deep in his fated mate, belongs to her.
"Mine," I whisper roughly against her skin, making the final vow. "Forever."