Chapter 8 #2
His hands grip tighter, holding me still as he continues his methodical exploration. A soft hum of approval rumbles through his chest when I moan. He learns quickly—what makes me gasp versus what makes my breath catch, what earns him a whimper versus what makes me curse.
When he finally finds my clit, circling the swollen bud with just the right pressure, pleasure spikes through me so sharp I cry out. My fingers tangle in his hair, not pulling, just needing something to anchor me as sensation floods my system.
"There," I manage. "Right there."
He hums approval and the vibration almost undoes me. His tongue flattens, then the tip flicks in quick succession. Two fingers slide inside me, curling to hit exactly the right spot.
"You're so wet," he groans against me. "So perfect."
The combination of his mouth and his fingers builds pleasure too fast. I thread my hands into his hair, not pulling, just needing to hold onto something.
"Thatcher—"
"Let go. I've got you."
His fingers pump faster, curling to hit that perfect spot inside me with every stroke.
His tongue circles my clit with relentless precision, alternating between firm pressure and light flicks that drive me insane.
The dual assault is overwhelming—pleasure builds in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.
My thighs shake. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The tension coils tighter and tighter in my core, every nerve ending firing at once. I'm right on the edge, suspended in that perfect moment before—
The orgasm slams into me like a freight train.
I come calling his name, back arching so hard I nearly lift off the bed.
My inner muscles clench rhythmically around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me, stealing my breath, my vision, my ability to think.
White-hot ecstasy radiates outward from my core, making my toes curl and my fingers grip his hair almost painfully.
He doesn't stop. His fingers continue their relentless rhythm, his tongue gentling but never ceasing as he draws out every last tremor.
The aftershocks roll through me in decreasing waves, each one making me gasp and shudder.
When I finally go limp, completely wrung out and boneless, he presses one last soft kiss against my oversensitive flesh before slowly withdrawing his fingers.
He kisses his way back up my body, lingering at my hip, my ribs, the valley between my breasts.
"Still feeling bossy?" he asks, grinning.
"Completely wrecked."
"Good."
I taste myself on his lips when he kisses me. I should probably be embarrassed but I'm not. I just want more of him.
"My turn," I say when I can form thought and words again.
I push him onto his back, straddle his thighs. His cock juts between us, hard and thick. I wrap my hand around him, feel him pulse in my palm.
"Gwen—"
"Shh. My turn."
I stroke him slowly, learning the weight and heat of him in my palm.
He's thick and hard, velvet skin stretched over steel, pulsing with need.
I watch his face as I explore—the way his eyes go dark when I twist my wrist at the head, how his jaw clenches when I squeeze just a little tighter.
A bead of moisture gathers at the tip and I swipe my thumb through it, spreading the slickness down his length.
His breath comes harder now, his abs flexing with each stroke. That legendary Marine control slips a little more with each deliberate movement of my hand. His hips start to move, subtle thrusts into my fist that he can't quite suppress.
"You're killing me," he groans.
"That's the plan."
I lower my head and drag my tongue from base to tip in one long, slow lick. The taste of him explodes on my tongue—clean skin and masculine heat. His whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking tight.
"Christ."
I swirl my tongue around the head, teasing the sensitive ridge before taking him into my mouth. Inch by inch, I work him deeper, relaxing my throat to accommodate his size. My lips seal tight around him as I pull back, creating suction that makes his hips jerk off the bed.
Power rushes through me, heady and intoxicating.
This controlled, tactical man is completely at my mercy.
I watch his reactions like I'm studying for an exam—cataloging what makes his breathing stutter versus what makes him grip the sheets.
When I hum around him, the vibration pulls a strangled sound from his throat.
I establish a rhythm, taking him deep then pulling back to focus on the head, tongue working in circles and figure-eights.
My hand cups and rolls his balls, adding another layer of sensation.
His fingers thread through my hair, not directing, just touching like he needs the connection.
The muscles in his thighs go taut, trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Gwen, I'm going to—"
I don't stop. I double down, taking him deeper and increasing the pace. My hand works in tandem with my mouth, twisting at the base while my tongue does wicked things to the head. I hum around him and the vibration is his undoing.
His whole body goes rigid. A choked sound tears from his throat—my name, broken and desperate.
His hips jerk up involuntarily as he comes, hot pulses flooding my mouth.
I swallow and keep working him through it, tongue gentling but maintaining that steady rhythm as wave after wave crashes through him.
His thighs shake. His fingers tighten in my hair almost to the point of pain before relaxing.
I feel every tremor, every aftershock that runs through his powerful body.
When the pulses finally stop and he's gasping for air above me, completely spent, I release him slowly and press one last soft kiss to the head before pulling back.
He stares at me like I've just rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.
"You're incredible," he says when he can speak.
"Right back at you."
He pulls me up to lie beside him, captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes like both of us. It's slow at first, then building again. His hand slides down my body, cups between my legs.
"Still wet," he murmurs appreciatively. "Think you can come again?"
"With you? Definitely."
He rolls me onto my back, settling between my thighs with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
His weight presses me into the mattress, solid and grounding.
The thick head of his cock slides through my wetness, parting my folds but not entering.
The pressure is maddening—so close to what I need but not quite there.
He does it again, dragging his length through my slickness in one slow, deliberate stroke. When he reaches my clit, he grinds against the swollen bud with just enough pressure to make me gasp. My hips buck up involuntarily, chasing more friction, but he pulls back with a knowing grin.
"Thatcher—"
Again. Slower this time. The ridge of his head catches on my entrance, threatening penetration before sliding away to torture my clit again. I'm squirming beneath him now, nails digging into his shoulders, completely at his mercy.
"Thatcher, please."
"Please what?"
"Stop teasing."
"But you make such pretty sounds when I tease you."
"I'm going to make even better sounds when you're inside me."
He grins. "I kind of like the way you think."
He finally positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. Our eyes lock as he begins to push in—slowly, so slowly I want to scream. The initial stretch is intense, my body opening to accommodate his size.
I gasp as he breaches me, the thick head sliding past that first ring of resistance.
He's big and the stretch borders on overwhelming, that perfect edge between pleasure and too much.
Inch by deliberate inch, he fills me. I feel every ridge, every vein as he sinks deeper.
My inner walls flutter and clench around him, trying to adjust to the intrusion.
"Breathe," he murmurs, voice strained with the effort of going slow.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath. I exhale shakily and he slides deeper, the fullness stealing my thoughts. When he finally bottoms out, completely seated inside me, we both freeze. The sensation is overwhelming—stretched and filled and claimed in a way that makes my toes curl.
"Okay?" His voice is strained with the effort of holding still.
"Perfect. Don't stop."
"You feel amazing," he groans. "So tight and wet."
He pulls out almost completely—I feel the drag of every inch, the emptiness threatening—then drives back in with one smooth, deep thrust that punches the air from my lungs. The fullness returns in a rush, hitting places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each stroke is controlled and measured, designed to let me feel every ridge and vein as he fills me.
The drag of his cock against my inner walls sends electricity racing up my spine.
He's watching my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of my eyelashes, learning exactly what I need.
His muscles flex with each thrust, abs contracting, biceps cording where he braces himself above me.
Sweat gleams on his skin. A drop falls from his jaw onto my collarbone and I feel it slide down between my breasts.
The visual of him working above me—all that controlled power focused entirely on my pleasure—is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation.
"Harder," I demand.
"Bossy."
All I can do is moan in response.
He chuckles, low and dark, and the sound vibrates through both of us.
Then he complies, pulling back and slamming home with enough force to make the headboard hit the wall.
The rhythm shifts from slow and controlled to powerful and relentless.
Each thrust drives deeper, harder, claiming me completely.