21. Toner and Warm Paper #3
He teases me, just rocking the blunt crown against my clit, then back, over and over, until I whimper and arch, desperate for more.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he says, soothing, big hand moving from my neck to my shoulder, holding me steady and safe. “Just breathe for me, baby girl. Let Daddy take care of you.”
Holy shit, I could die right now and not even care.
He pushes in, slow, stretching me so wide it’s almost too much, the white-hot pressure searing and perfect. My hands claw at the edge of the table, nails scraping laminate, but he doesn’t shove, doesn’t thrust. He just rocks his hips, inch by inch, working me open, letting me feel every bit of him.
“God, angel, you take me so well. I knew you would,” he groans. “You’re a dream, Neve.”
There’s nothing mean about it, nothing punishing, just the thick, sweet ache of being filled by him, of being wanted this much. I try to say his name, but all that comes out is a choked moan.
He bends over me, his chest flush to my back, and his hands are everywhere—in my hair, cupping my breasts through my hoodie, sliding over the soft lower plush of my belly.
The bridge of my nose stings as I realize I’ve never had a partner this invested in me as a person—exactly the person I am—rather than just as a fuck.
I moan again for him. I don’t even care how it sounds, how loud—I just want him to hear it. I want him to hear every greedy, shivering, broken part of me. I want him to know how good he makes me feel. I need him to know.
His hand slides over my hip as he rocks into me, the other bracing me down flat to the battered print table. He’s so careful, even when he’s unhinged. It’s almost worse. Like he’s holding himself in check just for me.
Grant bottoms out with a hiss, his hips dark heat against my ass. He holds there, just a second, like he’s giving me a chance to breathe, or maybe just making himself memorize the feeling of being all the way inside me.
“You feel so good,” I choke. “Please, please, fuck me. I need it. Please, Grant.”
He groans when I say his name, then starts moving—slowly at first, fucking into me with these long, sweet thrusts that make my brain short out.
I’ve never felt so full, so ruined, so good.
Each time he pulls back, it’s careful, then slams back in deep, just a little harder.
Not wild or punishing, but slow and steady, like every stroke is its own little promise.
He keeps a hand on my hip, pinning me, while the other finds its way between my thighs, thumb pressing firm and perfect against my clit.
Sensation shoots through me, and I nearly collapse.
He follows, molding to my back. His mouth is at my ear, breath hot.
“You like that? You like being stretched open on Daddy’s cock? ”
I can only nod, words gone. He fucks me deeper, and I swear I’ll cry if he stops.
He laughs softly. “You want me to come inside you? Fill you up?”
My body jolts. The words hit low, punchy and mean and sweet. “Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck, yes, please, I want you to.”
He eases off, hips grinding. The way he slows down should be illegal. Every muscle in my body is pulled so tight I feel like I might snap like a cable under impossible tension. The wet sound of him fucking into me, making my toes curl in my sneakers. I swear I can feel every vein, every throb.
He bends down so his beard scrapes my neck. “Does that scare you? You want me to fuck you full, baby girl? You want to be stuffed with Daddy’s cum until you feel it dripping out of you?”
My nails dig into the laminate edge of the table. “You can come inside me—please, please, I want you to,” I gasp, turning my cheek into the cold surface. “I’m on the pill.”
He groans. “That’s a shame.”
A wild, hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, and he huffs in response, wind knocked out of him, like we’re both in this weird feedback loop of breeding kink realization.
“My baby girl,” he rasps. “So needy for it, she’ll take every fucking drop.”
He pins me to the table, one palm braced on my nape, while the other hand snakes around, fingers rubbing stiff, perfect circles on my clit. I shiver. The heat between my thighs is nuclear, every nerve ending screaming for more.
“You look so good like this. Bent over, ass red, pussy fucked open for me. I wish you could see my cock stretching you, angel—you’re so wet it’s dripping down your thighs. Do you like making a mess?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Please, Grant. Harder.”
He obliges, grinding me back onto his cock with every thrust. I can barely stand it. I’m right on the edge, and he knows it. He’s ruthless with it, pinning my clit until my vision goes white at the edges like a frosted window.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “I want to feel you. Now, be Daddy’s good girl and come all over my cock.”
I shatter, body jerking. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out except noisy air. I feel my pussy clamp down on him, choking him in the tight, wet clutch of my orgasm.
Grant loses it, then. He groans, hips snapping so hard the table groans under us. He jerks inside me, and then he’s coming, cock throbbing and twitching as he floods me with heat.
I can’t breathe. I just hang there, draped over the battered print table, every muscle wrung out, my insides pulsing around him in the aftermath.
Grant braces both hands on my hips, holding tight as he fucks me through it—slow and deep and painfully gentle, every grind driving the hot slick of his cum deeper, making me shudder and clench around him with exhausted renewed arousal.
My mind is white noise, blown out with it, all I can do is whimper and shake and let him use me.
He slows, then stops, still buried inside me, his body blanketing mine. He’s shaking, too. I can feel it—a fine, full-body tremor, like he’s barely holding on. His breath is hot at my neck, and for a second, neither of us moves.
Then he pulls out, slow, and the loss is a gut-punch. I gasp, heels scrabbling for purchase, but before I can even process the emptiness, his hands are on me, careful. Almost reverent.
He turns me gently, so my ass hits the table, and my legs fall open, wide. I try to catch my breath, thighs still shaking. I should feel exposed, but I don’t. I want him to see all of me. I want him to see what he’s done to me.
Big hands bracket my thighs, spreading me even wider, and then his thumb is right there, smearing his own cum where it’s pooling at my swollen entrance.
I gasp, a noise that’s half disbelief. Grant presses his thumb in, slow and deep, shoving all that heat back inside, like he wants to keep it in me forever. Like I’m supposed to be full of him.
“Fuck, Grant,” I breathe, body jerking at the sensation. He watches every second, every twitch of my thighs, like he’s studying me. His eyes are wild, but his hands are gentle. It almost makes me laugh, how he could be scared to break me after all of that.
He smooths his thumb over my clit, soft, just once, and I nearly sob. Then he crowds between my knees, body covering me, his chest and stomach hot against my skin.
I brace for another onslaught of pure filth, but his hand slides up my jaw, fingers threading through my hair, cradling the back of my neck. He waits until my eyes find his, and then he kisses me.
I expect it to be hungry and mean, but it’s… soft. Devastatingly, humiliatingly soft. Like he can’t believe he gets to kiss me at all. His mouth covers mine, gentle and slow, every brush of his lips an apology for every rough thing he’s done to my body.
Fuck, it’s perfect. He is perfect.
It’s not even a kiss, really; it’s more like some kind of confession and apology rolled into one, though I’m hardly sure what he’s confessing to or apologizing for.
He lingers, lips ghosting mine, nothing but our breathing and the hazy, static hum of the print room in the background.
He tastes like sweat and salt and something sweet. My chest aches.
When he pulls back, his face is open, vulnerable, like he’s afraid I might laugh at him for being soft. He cups my cheek, thumb gentle at my jaw.
“You deserve better than this,” he whispers. “Let me make it up to you.”
My brain short-circuits. I want to tell him this is already more than I’ve ever had, that this is what I want. But I can’t say it, not now. Instead, I just smile, heart pounding.
“No making up necessary,” I say with a nervous, broken laugh. “But I won’t say no.”
His lips twitch. He dips his head and kisses me again, slower this time, deeper.
I melt instantly. His beard scrapes my skin, and I open for him, letting him taste me, letting him know exactly how much I want it.
How much I want him. It’s not even sexual anymore—I mean, it is, obviously, my insides are still alive and buzzing, and I can feel his cum threatening to drip out of me every time I shift on the stupid table—but this is… more.
He pulls back, breath fanning over my lips. “Good. I’ll send you my address. Come over tonight at seven.”
I blink at him, still not fully returned to Earth. “For what?”
Grant smiles, then he leans in to kiss me once more, tongue stroking slowly over mine. When he breaks away, his lips stay close, brushing mine. “Date night, angel.”