Luna #3
The mattress dips as his knees bracket mine, and his hands find my hips with a grip that pins me in place. Without a word, he fists my hair and yanks me up so I’ll look at myself. I flick my eyes at him and note the heat in his eyes, the firmness of his jaw.
I know he isn’t actually this serious. I know part of him is playing a role.
I bet he could be just about any kind of lover. Put on any mask necessary. If I didn’t know he loved it, I might ask that he take it off. I almost do.
But then I feel the thick mushroomed velvet of flesh against my entrance, and the idea of talking feels senseless. The heat of him spreads me open, only to hover. A deliberate pause while I grip the comforter and hold my breath. His fingers flex on my hips.
Then, slow and deep, he pushes in.
My eyes shut on instinct, lips parting in a soundless gasp as I stretch to take him. He doesn’t rush. Each inch a claim, a reminder of exactly where I am and who I’m giving this to.
When he’s fully inside me, his hands slide up my sides and frame my ribs before trailing back down to grip my hips again.
He draws back slowly, then thrusts forward with a force that pushes a sharp sound from my throat. The bed groans beneath us, the rhythm starting low, steady, each stroke measured, building.
His pace shifts.
Slow gives way to something harder, sharper, each thrust pushing me forward on my hands. The bed squeaks faintly in time, but the sound is almost lost under the rough pull of his breath.
One hand leaves my hip to snake up my spine and flattens between my shoulder blades. When he presses, my elbows give under the pressure. I fall to the mattress with my cheek brushing the sheets as he drives into me.
My neck cranes to watch the mirror even without him prodding, but it’s him I can’t take my eyes off of. His intensity, his scars, his boyish face, his beautiful eyes.
He’s perfection, I realize as he fucks me. Just like he claimed I am, and as big of a liar as he is, I know he meant it. The thought hits me so hard, I want to cry. Sob. But my mouth is too busy making other sounds.
Every movement drags a moan from me, low, needy, impossible to swallow down. Sawyer doesn’t speak, doesn’t let me breathe between the force of his hips, just keeps me exactly where he wants me, taking what he gives.
When his hand slides into my hair and fists at the base of my skull, my back arches, and the angle changes. The new depth has my fingers clawing the mattress, a strangled cry slipping free.
“Fuck.” A rasp—his voice is rough with effort. His brutal grip in my hair pulls my head back so my spine bows. His palm cracks against my ass.
One word glows bright red in my mind: harder.
“More.”
His hips snap forward, the thrust sharp enough to make me gasp. “You want me to fuck you harder?” The sting from his palm still blooms across my skin, but the force behind his movements eclipses it.
“Hit me harder.”
His hips still, the sudden pause almost worse than the motion.
A slow, wolfish smile curves his lips in the mirror. “That’s what you want, pretty girl? You want Daddy to make it sting?”
My breath hitches, but I hold his gaze and refuse to look away even as the word makes me want to cower. Does it make sense for something to disgust and ignite at the same time?
“Yes.”
He shifts his grip in my hair, pulling my head back just a little more, making my spine a taut line. His free hand drags over the curve of my ass, slow and deliberate. The anticipation burns hotter than the strike itself.
The slap comes hard, sharp enough to make me jolt forward on my hands. My gasp is too loud for the thin walls, but before the sound has faded, he does it again. Heat floods across my skin.
“Color?” he murmurs, low and rough. At first, I don’t understand what he means, but after a few seconds, it occurs.
“Green.” The word shakes out of me.
A dark hum of approval is paired with a gentle brush of his thumb along the sting. It’s a fleeting caress that turns into another smack, this one ringing throughout the tiny room.
My eyes clench shut.
“Have you been a bad girl, Luna?”
I hardly hesitate. “Yes, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”
“Are you?” he asks before striking me, not quite as intense as before.
I nod against the comforter. “I need punished.”
Sawyer’s palm squeezes before rubbing a welt, pushing the ache deeper inside me.
“Then push that pretty ass into my hand and look up.”
I forget the mirror.
When my eyes lift to my reflection, I’m struck with a split second of shock as a glint of light hits my eyes and turns them into red lasers that disappear with a lowering of my head. I’m a mess of white hair and ruby skin that doesn’t look like it could be my own.
Sawyer thinks this is beautiful.
“You ready?” he asks, his tone more a warning than a question.
I open my mouth to answer but am paralyzed by a strike that lands with a sharp smack across my rear.
The next blow makes my knees wobble, but Sawyer’s grip on my hair keeps me steady. The mix of pain and the fullness of him still inside me has my head spinning. Dizzy on air thickened with heat and the scent of sweat and skin.
He gives me three more, each one timed with a deliberate thrust. The rhythm is devastating—slap, thrust, slap, thrust—until my breath comes in ragged bursts and my hands curl into fists.
When his palm finally rests against my skin, it’s hot to the touch. He kneads gently, almost soothing, though the pressure makes the sting throb hotter.
“You’re my good girl.” Something hungry edges into his voice. When you fuck somebody in a way that is their nastiest fantasy, that, for me, does it. “Taking me like a little slut.”
His stare meets mine in the mirror, locked and unblinking, like he’s daring me to look away.
I don’t.
His hips pull back and drive forward again, hard enough to make the legs of the bed grind against the tile. The afterglow of the spanks makes every movement sharper, every thrust feel bigger, deeper.
My moan cracks into something higher, more desperate. His free hand slides from my hair to my shoulder and braces me for the force behind each ruthless drive of his hips.
“Beg for it,” he orders.
“Please.” It comes out before though—before I even know what I’m asking for. More of him, more of the sting, more of everything. “Fuck me, Sawyer. Please.”
Another sharp smack to my ass, followed by the punishing drive of his hips, has me nearly collapsing forward. My elbows bend, my cheek rubs the sheet, but he hauls me back up with a fist in my hair.
“Uh-uh,” he says with his mouth close to my ear. “You don’t get to hide.”
He turns my head just enough that my eyes lock with his in the mirror. The heat there is a weight that strangles any movement.
“You feel that?” His thrust drives the question into me, his voice low and rough. “Tell me you love my cock.”
A shiver snakes down my spine as my knuckles whiten. “I love it.”
“Say it again.” Another thrust, harder this time, rocking me forward.
“I love your cock.” My voice trembles.
His hand leaves my shoulder to smooth down my back, fingers trailing over the curve of my spine before spreading wide over my hips. He uses the grip to pull me into him with each thrust, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, syncing with my ragged breathing.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, almost like he’s talking to himself. Which makes every word land harder.
My body tightens around him in response. My reflection is flushed and wild, hair clinging to my damp cheeks, lips parted on every shaky exhale.
His pace shifts again, faster now, the rhythm losing its measured control. My palms slide in search of stable ground as each stroke sends me inching toward the edge.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, voice like gravel against silk.
I hesitate for only a heartbeat before sliding a hand between my thighs. My fingertips find slick heat and rub—hard—until a strangled moan tears free without shame.
“That’s it.” He watches in the mirror. “Rub that pretty little clit for me.”
The combination is dizzying—his relentless thrusts, the sharp sting still blooming on my skin, my own touch winding me tighter and tighter.
His chest molds to my back as he leans forward to speak in my ear. “You’re gonna come on my cock, Luna. Right here. While you look at yourself.”
My gaze stays locked on the mirror, on the picture we make together—him towering behind me, muscles taut, eyes fixed on me like I’m his only focus; me bent forward, shaking, every part of me offered to him.
As if ordered from the gods: the coil in my belly snaps and pleasure slams through me so hard it rips a scream from my throat. My hand falters, but his grip on my hip keeps me steady as wave after wave crashes over me.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts but never pulling out. He lets me ride the aftershocks until I’m trembling from head to toe.
When I sag forward, boneless, Sawyer’s thrusts quicken, ragged now, like he’s chasing my orgasm. His grip on my hips bruises, his chest pressed to my back as he drives in harder, rougher.
A groan tears from his throat, deep and guttural, before his body shudders against mine. The sound vibrates through me as he empties himself inside me.
For a moment, he stays there. Every muscle is drawn tight as he catches his breath. Then slowly, his hold softens.
He lifts my limp body and turns me so my head rests on a pillow. My eyes feel heavy as his heat envelops my back, one arm draping across my chest and hugging me close. I push myself against the scars on his chest.
The room is still except for the echo of our breathing.
Sawyer doesn’t get up to shut off the light, and that’s the only indication that he isn’t planning on crashing. I lie still, wishing he’d speak. Spin more of his cotton candy nonsense—here’s why I’m not disgusting or weird or fucked up.
It would be too pitiful to ask for it, so instead I stay quiet. Let my mind drift until my chest tightens thinking of everything that’s to come.