5. Isabelle #3
The angle is different, deeper, and I moan as I start to move.
He grips my hips, guiding my movements, and I throw my head back, lost in the sensation.
I'm riding him hard, my breasts bouncing, my body slick with sweat, and I can feel him throbbing inside me.
"Fuck," he groans, his hands moving to my breasts, pinching my nipples.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this."
I'm close again, so close, and I can tell he is too, already. His breathing is ragged, his grip on my hips tightening, and when he thrusts up into me, hitting that perfect spot, I cry out.
"God, I can't believe you're going to make me fucking come again," he growls. "You're a fucking siren. Christ. What's your name?"
I stare at him, my movements stuttering, and his dark eyes meet mine.
"I want to know what to moan when I fucking come in you for the third fucking time," he growls, and I feel my back arch, pleasure racing through me at the raw need in his voice.
"What?" I gasp.
"Your name," he repeats, his eyes locked on mine. "Tell me your name."
I'd do anything he asked right now. The answer comes easily. "Isabelle," I moan, my body clenching around him. "My name is Isabelle. Isabelle Montague."
The moment the words leave my lips, everything changes.
His entire body goes rigid beneath me. One second, his hands are on my hips, dragging me down onto his cock again and again, and then suddenly they're around my throat—one hand braced on the back of my head as the other wraps around the front of my neck.
I see something dark and horrified flash across his face even as his hips jerk up into me, still thrusting, and I have a sudden, insane, terrifying thought.
He's going to kill me.
His grip tightens, cutting off my air, and panic floods through me. My hands fly to his wrists, trying to pull them away, but he's too strong.
What the fuck is happening?
But God, it feels good. His face is tight with lust and that shocked expression that makes no fucking sense, as if he knows me, as if he can't believe he's fucking me, but I've never met him before.
That thought is tangled up with everything else, the slam of his cock into me as if his body is working separately from his mind, and the pressure of his hands on my throat is about to send me into orbit.
I've never been choked before, but fuck, I think I fucking like it…
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't do anything except stare into his eyes and see something that looks like horror and rage and shock…
and then, as my head swims and his hands tighten further, I feel my entire body tighten as my arousal spikes beyond the point of no return.
Despite the fear, despite the confusion, despite the fact that his hands are around my throat—and because of it—my pussy clenches around him, and I see his eyes widen, his expression shifting from horror to something else.
Something primal.
His grip doesn't loosen, still on the verge of making me pass out, but suddenly he's
thrusting up into me, harder than before.
He's staring at me wildly, as if he doesn't know what he's doing, his thumb pressing into my windpipe as the orgasm crashes through me.
He groans, a guttural sound that sends shivers down my spine, and I feel him come, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me.
And then just as fast as we both came, he's pulling out and ripping the condom off, pushing me off him, and grabbing his clothes from the floor.
"Wait—" I start, but he's already pulling on his pants, his movements jerky and frantic. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't say a word. Just grabs his shirt and his shoes and heads for the door.
"Wait!" I call out again, sitting up, my heart pounding. "What—what just happened?"
But he's gone. The door slams shut behind him, and I'm left sitting on the bed, naked and confused and still trembling.
What the fuck was that?
I touch my throat, feeling the tender spots where his fingers pressed, and try to make sense of what just happened. He asked my name. I told him. And then he looked at me like I was a ghost. Like I was something terrifying.
He almost choked me to fucking death. I came because of it, and so did he.
And then he left.
I fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and try to process it all.
Maybe he just doesn't do the whole "staying the night" thing.
Maybe last night was a fluke, and this is how he normally operates.
Fuck and leave. No strings, no complications.
Maybe he got too rough, rougher than he normally does, and he felt guilty about it after he came.
Post-nut clarity or whatever the guys call it.
He couldn't face me after, too ashamed, and so he ran.
That's fine. I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, and I had another night of incredible sex. That's what I wanted too, right? Wild and reckless and free. No attachments. No feelings.
Except…
Except a small part of me wishes he'd stayed. And that he'd explained whatever the fuck just happened.
I roll onto my side, pulling the sheet up over my body, and close my eyes.
It doesn't matter. He's gone, and I'll probably never see him again. That's how these things work. One-night stands—or in this case, two-night stands—don't turn into anything more. And I'm fine with that.
I am.