14. Maren #3
His hands were on the bralette first—not taking it off, just running his palms over the lace, feeling it, feeling me underneath it, the warmth of them bleeding through the thin fabric like he was learning me through it.
He pulled back far enough to look at me again, raking his eyes over me, and he made me feel special, empowered, like I was worth staring at.
He walked me backward toward the bed without a word, his eyes moving over me slowly—the black lace against my skin, the low light, all of it—and I felt the weight of his stare in my stomach, in my thighs, in every place I’d been trying not to think about since the last time.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sat and he stayed standing, looking at me, and I understood he was going to take his time with this and that I was going to let him.
He reached out and ran his thumb along the edge of the bralette cup. Slow. Deliberate. The lace catching slightly against the pad of his thumb.
“Leave it on,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. My voice came out lower than I intended.
He took his shirt off and nudged me back so he could crawl on the bed over me, between my legs.
He leaned down and kissed my throat—warm, unhurried, his stubble dragging slightly against my skin—then my collarbone, then the swell of my breast above the lace.
His hands slid to my waist, my hips, the waistband of the panties—not pulling them down, just resting there, warm and intentional, fingers spread wide against the silk.
I was already warm everywhere. Already thinking about the last time and what he’d done and what I’d asked for and the fact that he’d remembered.
He remembered everything.
His mouth found my nipple through the lace and I gasped—sharp, involuntary—and he did it again, wetter this time, his tongue and his teeth working through the fabric until it was damp and the friction was maddening and I had both hands in his hair gripping the strands as he licked and sucked the sensitive peaks.
Then he reached up and pulled the cup down—not off, just down, the bralette still on but displaced, both cups folded under my breasts so they sat up and out in the low light, completely available to him.
He looked at what he’d done with an expression of profound satisfaction, a wide grin.
“Much better,” he said.
Then he put his mouth on me properly and I stopped being able to form opinions about anything.
He took his time with it. Both hands, both sides, his mouth and his fingers moving back and forth—sucking one nipple into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingertips, the dual sensation of it making my hips roll forward on their own.
He’d paid attention last time and he was using every single thing he’d learned and I never wanted it to stop.
Heat pooled low in my stomach and lower still and I was slick and swollen before he’d even touched me there.
“Turn over,” he said against my skin. “Hands and knees,” he said. Low. Certain.
Yes, sir.
He pulled the panties down—not off, halfway, mid-thigh, leaving them there—and I felt the cool air on my skin and his hands on my hips positioning me and I went where he put me without a single objection.
I got my hands and knees under me and felt him behind me—the heat of him, the solid presence of him, exactly how ready he was pressing against me through his jeans—and I got wetter just from that. Just from knowing.
I didn’t look back, but I heard the rip of foil and lost his touch for only a moment before he ran his hand slowly up my spine, from the small of my back to the nape of my neck, and I shivered despite the warmth of the room.
“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “what you look like right now.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He continued. “You’re like a present, wrapped up in lace and silk. Just for me.”
He reached around and cupped my breast, the weight of his hand warm and certain, rolling my nipple between his fingers while his mouth found the back of my neck—lips, then teeth, then the slow drag of his tongue—and I dropped my head and pushed back toward him.
“Please,” I said.
“Please what.”
“Ryan.”
“Say it.”
“Please fuck me like this,” I begged. “Please.”
He rewarded me for that—his fingers sliding between my thighs, finding me slick and swollen, stroking slowly through the heat of me while I pressed into his hand and tried not to lose my mind entirely. The sound I made was not quiet. I stopped trying to be quiet.
“This wet for me already,” he said. Not a question. A fact he was filing away with obvious satisfaction.
“Yes,” I managed.
“Good girl.”
I clenched around his fingers and he felt it and made a low sound against the back of my neck that I felt in my spine.
“You like that,” he said. “When I call you a good girl?”
“You know I do.”
“I know.” The satisfaction in his voice was devastating. “I know exactly what you like…my good girl.”
He teased me with the head of his cock—just enough, just the promise of it, the blunt pressure of him right where I needed it most—and I gripped the sheets and pushed back toward him and he pulled back just enough and I made a sound that was entirely undignified and I did not care even slightly.
“Ryan—”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I said. “Inside me. Now. Please.”
He pushed inside me in one long stroke.
I cried out into the pillow and felt him everywhere—deep and full and so good it was almost too much—the stretch of him, the warmth, the fullness that made my thighs tremble and my toes curl.
He held still for a moment with his hands gripping my hips and his chest against my back and his mouth at my ear, both of us breathing hard, neither of us moving.
“This is mine,” he said against my ear, his voice low and rough as he transformed into the bedroom version of himself, completely unrestrained. “You understand that. Nobody else gets this. You are mine.”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Say it. I want to hear it again;”
“Yours,” I said. “It’s yours. I’m yours.”
“Good girl,” he said. “My good girl.”
I clenched around him and he groaned—low and wrecked—and I felt it everywhere.
He started to move.
It was exactly what I’d asked for. Deep and hard and not gentle, each stroke building on the last, finding the angle that made me gasp and staying there.
He reached around and took my breast in his hand, his fingers finding my nipple, rolling and tugging while he moved inside me and I pushed back to meet him and lost the ability to be quiet about any of it.
“Feel how well you take me,” he said against my ear, his voice rough and low, his rhythm not letting up for a single second. “You feel that? How perfectly you fit around my cock?”
“God,” I said. “Yes. Yes.”
“This pussy was made for me, Maren.” He drove deeper and felt me clench and groaned against my throat. “Nobody gets to touch it but me. You understand that?”
He’d already ruined me for any other man. There was no way I’d ever get over the combustible chemistry we had.
“Yes,” I said. “Only you. Only ever you.”
He pulled me up then—hands at my waist, bringing me up onto my knees with him, my back to his chest, the full length of him inside me from this angle making my vision blur at the edges.
His arm crossed my body, holding me against him, and I felt his heart pounding against my spine and his breath against my neck and every point of contact between us was electric and certain.
His mouth found the curve of my neck. His other hand slid down my stomach—slow, mapping every inch of skin—and then he guided my hand between my thighs, pressing my fingers to where I was swollen and slick and desperate.
“Touch yourself,” he said. “Right there. Do you feel how wet you are for me?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Don’t stop.” He kept moving inside me, deep and steady, his mouth at my throat, his hand covering mine, guiding the pressure and the rhythm. “Do you want to come, baby?”
“Yes,” I said. “Please. Ryan. Yes.”
“Then show me,” he said. “Let me feel it. Come all over my cock.”
I looked back at him over my shoulder—flushed and completely undone, past the point of managing anything, past the point of pretending—and he slowed, just barely, his eyes finding mine in the low light.
“Baby, you okay?” he asked, a quick moment of tenderness, checking in. Quietly. Just Ryan.
I met his eyes for one second. I stared at his jaw, tight with the effort of holding back. At his stare, dark and certain and completely focused on me.
“Please,” I said, “don’t ever stop fucking me like this.” Nothing had ever felt so good, so overwhelming of all my senses. I was lost in it, and it was because of him. He gave me everything.
“Aldrig,” he said. Low. Wrecked. Like the word came from somewhere he didn’t usually let anyone near.
He ran his palms over my tits, pinching each nipple, and then he put me back on all fours.
He drove into me harder—deeper, relentless, his hands gripping my hips with no pretense of gentleness, exactly what I’d been begging for—and I gripped the headboard and pushed back to meet him and let myself be completely loud about it.
His hand found my hip, the other splayed warm and firm across my lower back, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and I felt every stroke of him deep and full and perfect and I was right there, right at the edge, my whole body coiling tight—
The slap landed on my ass, sharp and sudden and completely unexpected.
I came apart.
Instantly. Completely. Every muscle I had releasing at once, my whole body shaking, his name breaking apart in my mouth in fragments I couldn’t control.
He worked me through it without letting up—deeper, harder, wringing every last second out of it—until I was trembling and gasping and boneless and the grip on the headboard had gone slack.
He followed me over moments later. Both hands gripping my hips, his forehead dropping to my back, my name rough and wrecked in his throat like it was the only word he had left. “Fuck, Maren.”