15. Zaria #2
He slams inside me in one hard thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. My back arches against the wall, fingers clawing at his shoulders as my body adjusts to the sudden fullness. He's big—bigger than I expected—and the stretch borders on painful in the best possible way.
"Fuck," I gasp, and Greer's entire body goes rigid, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he releases a sound that's half groan, half whimper.
"Oh god." His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "You feel—I can't?—"
"Don't move yet." My fingers find his hair again, gripping tight while my body adjusts to him. "Let me feel you."
He obeys, staying perfectly still even though I can feel the tremors running through his muscles, the desperate effort it's taking not to just start fucking into me. His breath comes in harsh pants against my neck, and when he speaks his voice shakes.
"You're perfect. So fucking perfect. I knew you would be but—" He breaks off with another groan as I deliberately clench around him.
The praise does something to me. Makes me feel powerful and wanted and worshipped in ways I didn't know I needed. Makes me want to reward his patience, his obedience, his willingness to wait for my command.
"Move," I tell him. "Fuck me. Hard."
He pulls back and slams in again with force that makes the breath leave my lungs in a rush. Then again. And again. Setting up a brutal rhythm that has my nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood through his henley.
"Yes." The word comes out broken, desperate. "Like that. Just like that."
He buries his face in my neck, his hips driving into me with single-minded focus.
Each thrust hits something deep inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids, makes my thighs shake where they're locked around his waist. The rough brick scrapes against my back through my shirt but I don't care—pain and pleasure blurring together into something overwhelming.
"Tell me," he gasps against my throat. "Tell me what you need."
My hands fist in his hair, pulling his head back so I can see his face. His eyes are glazed, lips parted, completely undone in the best way.
"Harder." My voice comes out commanding despite how breathless I am. "Angle up. Hit that spot—yes, fuck, right there."
He adjusts immediately, following my instructions with perfect precision. The new angle makes each thrust drag against that place inside me that sends electricity racing up my spine, building pressure that's going to shatter me soon.
"Like this?" His voice is strained, desperate for approval.
"Perfect." I pull his hair harder, rewarding him with the sharp sensation I know he craves. "You're so good for me. Taking such good care of me."
He whimpers—actually whimpers—and his rhythm stutters for a second before he recovers. The sound goes straight between my legs, makes me clench around him in a way that draws another broken moan from his throat.
"Don't stop," I order, feeling my orgasm building fast and inevitable. "Keep fucking me exactly like this."
"I'm trying." His words come out strangled. "Fuck, sweetheart, you feel too good. I'm not going to last."
"You will." I tighten my grip on his hair, making him look at me. "You're going to be a good boy and hold it until I say you can come."
His eyes go wide, pupils blown so dark there's barely any green left. "I don't—I can't?—"
"You can." My voice drops lower, more commanding. "You're going to wait for me because that's what good boys do. They make sure their girl comes first."
The word breaks him. I watch it happen in real time—the way his eyes go glassy, the way his whole body shudders, the way he nods frantically like he'd agree to anything I asked right now.
"Yes." He chokes on the word. "Yes, fuck, okay."
He's not a submissive man. That's what makes this so perfect, what makes the surrender in his eyes so goddamn intoxicating.
Greer Martin handles problems for me without being asked.
Beats traitors bloody. Strategizes operations.
Takes initiative in ways that should piss me off but instead make me wet.
He's strong. Capable. Dangerous despite his clean origins.
But right now, buried inside my body against this brick wall, he bends for me.
And I fucking love it.
"That's my good boy." I roll my hips to meet his next thrust, rewarding him with the friction we both need. "Now fuck me harder."
He obeys immediately, his hips slamming forward with renewed intensity.
The force of it drives the air from my lungs, makes my back scrape against rough brick in ways that will definitely leave marks.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping over sensitive skin before biting down hard enough to sting.
"Come on my cock." The words come out muffled against my throat, desperate and demanding. "Please, fuck, I need to feel you come around me."
His begging does something to me. Makes heat coil tighter in my stomach, makes my thighs shake where they're locked around his waist. I can feel how close I am—that pressure building to unbearable levels, every nerve ending singing with the promise of release.
"Keep talking." My nails dig deeper into his shoulders, drawing him closer even though there's no space left between us. "Tell me what you want."
"You." He punctuates the word with another brutal thrust that hits exactly right. "Just you. Want to feel you fall apart. Want to know I'm the one who makes you lose control."
"You are." The admission comes easier than it should. "You make me—fuck, right there."
He adjusts his angle slightly, following my breathless direction with perfect precision.
Each thrust now drags against that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids, that makes coherent thought impossible.
His cock fills me completely, stretching me in ways that border on too much, and the slight burn only adds to the overwhelming sensation.
"So tight." His voice breaks on the words. "Jesus, sweetheart, you're gripping me so hard."
"Because you feel good." I pull his hair, making him look at me. His face is flushed, lips swollen, eyes completely glazed with need. "Because your cock fills me up like you were made for this."
He whimpers again—that broken sound that goes straight to my core—and his rhythm falters for half a second.
I can see the effort it takes him to maintain control, to not just let go and chase his own release.
His whole body trembles with restraint, muscles coiled tight, jaw clenched hard enough that I can see the tension.
"Good boy," I praise him, watching how the words make his pupils dilate even further. "You're doing so well. Taking such good care of me."
"I'm trying." The words come out strangled, desperate. "Fuck, Zaria, I'm trying so hard but you feel too perfect."
"I know." I tighten my legs around his waist, changing the angle slightly so each thrust goes even deeper. "I can feel how close you are. Feel how hard you're fighting to hold it."
He groans, forehead dropping to my shoulder as his hips continue their relentless rhythm. The new angle makes pleasure spike through me sharp and sudden, makes my back arch and my breath catch. I'm right there, balanced on the edge, needing just a little more to push me over.
"Harder," I order, voice rough with need. "Don't hold back. Give me everything."
He lifts his head to look at me, something dark and hungry flashing in his green-gold eyes. Then he's shifting his grip on my thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to definitely bruise, and his hips drive forward with enough force to make me cry out.
"Like this?" He does it again, harder. "Is this what you need?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Fuck, yes, exactly like that."
He sets up a new rhythm—brutal and unrelenting, each thrust hitting so deep I can feel it everywhere. My nails rake down his back through his henley, leaving marks I know he'll feel tomorrow. Good. I want him to remember this, to carry the physical proof of what we did every time he moves.
The pressure building inside me reaches critical mass. My thighs start shaking uncontrollably, my breath coming in harsh gasps, and I can feel my body starting to tighten around him in warning.
"Close." I manage to get the word out. "I'm so close."
"Thank fuck." He bites down on my neck again, harder this time, marking me with the same possessive need I feel. "Please, sweetheart, I need you to come. Need to feel it."
His desperation pushes me closer. The way he's begging, the way his whole body is wound so tight with the effort of holding back, the way he keeps calling me sweetheart like it's a prayer—all of it combines into something overwhelming.
"Touch me." The command comes out breathless. "Put your hand between us and rub my clit."