Ten Out of Ten, Would Rebound Again #2
He licked me until I sobbed, until I was begging for it, then slid two fingers inside my sex, curling them just right, hitting that spot no one else had ever found.
My release hit so hard I nearly blacked out, my body convulsing, every muscle seizing.
I screamed his name, choking on the sound, and he was right there with me, whispering, “So good, Sadie. You’re so fucking perfect. Every part of you.”
He let me ride the high, never letting go, until my limbs went limp and I was slumped onto the couch cushions, boneless.
Then, he shifted so he was kneeling behind me, and I felt him lining himself up again.
The pressure of his engorged tip was pushing against my entrance.
I looked back at him as he pressed inside of me, and I held onto the pillows.
He held me tightly with both hands, manhandling me into perfect alignment, and I braced myself against the arm of the couch.
The pressure was excruciating and perfect, each slow grind of his hips opening me up, claiming me deeper than he’d ever been.
He massaged my ass, spreading me wider, and when he started to thrust—inexorable, ruthless, owning every inch—I nearly sobbed from the intensity.
The slap of flesh on flesh, the dirty wet sounds of my tight canal swallowing him over and over, echoed in the dimly lit room.
He bent his torso over mine, burying his face in the back of my neck, the heat of his breath igniting fireworks on my skin. “You like that?” he rasped, voice shredded with need. He bit down, not enough to hurt but to remind me who was in control, and I whimpered my answer, too delirious for words.
His arm snaked around my middle, palm splayed over my lower belly, holding me steady while he pounded into me with merciless precision.
Then his hand found the tender knot of nerves at the top of my sex, slippery and swollen, and he circled it with his thumb in perfect rhythm to the thrusts, like he knew my body’s secrets even better than I did.
I was gone, lost to the world, nothing but sensation—pain, pleasure, want, more.
I lost myself as I screamed into the throw pillow, my inner muscles clamping down, milking him for everything he had.
But he didn’t stop. He held me steady and took every aftershock, chasing his own release, grinding out incoherent praise and filthy talk at my ear.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, “so good, Sadie, you were made for me.”
The raw, almost reverent way he said it undid me, made me feel precious and owned at the same time.
The world narrowed to the two of us, to this couch, to the slick, animal collision of bodies.
My mind fractured, exploding into a million points of light, each one a flash of memory, us at seventeen in his truck, prom night, promising to love me forever, all the years I’d pretended I didn’t want this.
It was all still there, the history and heartbreak, written into the lines of his body and the muscle of his hands.
He pulled me upright, so my back was flush against his chest, his hand at my throat, the other gripping my hip.
He pounded into me, fucking me through my aftershocks.
He started to lose control, his thrusts growing wild, more frantic, and I wanted to see his face when he came.
I reached behind me, grabbed his hip, tried to turn, and he got the message—he pulled out and flipped me like a rag doll onto my back.
I barely registered the loss before he was inside me again, driving home with a single, punishing stroke.
The new angle made me arch off the couch, thighs shaking, toes digging into the upholstery.
He kissed me, hard and brutal, his teeth catching my lower lip until I gasped.
He swallowed the sound, pinning my wrists to the cushions, his body like a furnace above mine.
“Look at me,” he demanded, and I did, even though my vision blurred from the tears of pleasure streaking my temples.
His eyes were wild, desperate, vulnerable—like he couldn’t believe I was real, like he was terrified I’d vanish if he blinked.
He slowed his thrusts, drawing them out, savoring the connection, and his hand came up to cradle my jaw.
“Don’t ever leave again,” he whispered, and I realized it wasn’t a command so much as a prayer.
I couldn’t answer. I could barely breathe.
My whole body clenched around him, and I felt his cock jerk, the hot flood of his release painting my insides.
He moaned my name, voice breaking, and collapsed on top of me, our bodies tangled and slick with sweat.
We rode out the aftershocks together, shuddering and trembling until there was nothing left but the drumbeat of our hearts and the ragged pull of air in our lungs.
For a long moment neither of us moved. I lay there, pinned beneath his weight, feeling every inch of skin pressed against mine, trying to memorize the sensation in case it was the last time. His breath fanned my cheek, his arms caged me in, and for the first time in years, I didn’t want to run.
Eventually, he rolled us to the side, careful to keep me tucked into his chest, like I might slip away if he loosened his grip.
I curled against him, my ear above his heart, and let myself be held.
The room was shadowed, the only light leaking in from the candles flickering, painting the wall in rippling gold.
His hand moved in lazy circles across the small of my back, soothing and grounding. “You okay?” he murmured, voice rumbling through his chest to where my cheek rested. I nodded, unable to speak, and he kissed the top of my head, lingering like he was taking a sacrament.
It was the gentleness in his touch—the way he wrapped the blanket around us, the way he stroked my hair—that made it impossible to pretend this was just sex.
The need in his voice, the worry that I might be sorry, the vulnerability in the way he waited for my answer.
He was showing up for me, the way he always had, even when I’d been too stubborn to see it.
I nodded and cleared my throat, voice hoarse. “Why did you come?” I asked, meaning why he’d come over in the storm. But he misunderstood—he thought I meant the sex, the madness we’d just survived.
He smiled. “You have to ask?”
I thought about rewording my question but realized there were so many other things that needed to be said.
I wanted to tell him that I’d spent years longing for this, for him.
That the distance between us had never felt right, not even for a day.
But all I could manage was, “I never stopped missing you.”
He tensed, a sharp breath escaping him, and I worried I’d said too much. But he just pulled me tighter, held me like a lifeline. “Good,” he said simply. “Because I never stopped missing you, either.”
We lay like that for a while, cocooned in the silence, the ghosts of the past finally quiet for once.
He smoothed the hair from my face and sat up, still holding me close. “You want pizza?” he asked, so matter-of-fact it made me laugh. And somehow, that made everything okay.
I realized, once again, that he was showing up for me, just like he always did.