47. Mandy
MANDY
His mouth is on mine before I can think, before I can second-guess, before I can do anything but feel.
The kiss is nothing like I expected.
It's not gentle or exploratory. It's claiming—his tongue sliding against mine with the same precision he uses for everything else—controlled, deliberate, and devastating.
I arch into him, my hands fisting in his hair, and he makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight to my pussy.
"Amanda," he murmurs against my lips, and the way he says my name—like a prayer and a curse—makes me shiver.
His hands move to the hem of my shirt—his shirt—and he pulls back just enough to look at me. "Take it off.”
I sit up and pull it over my head, tossing it aside. I'm naked underneath, and his eyes track over me as he runs a hand down the middle of my body, straight between my legs, dipping two fingers into my pussy.
Gasping, my back bows and my hips press up. “Oh God.”
He slides his fingers out and brings them to his mouth, slowly licking them. "Fuck, you're perfect."
I’m going to come just watching him. I know it.
His wet fingers close on one of my nipples, pinching before pulling on it just enough.
The sharp sensation makes me gasp, and he does it again—harder this time, testing, reading my response. He must see a green light, because his mouth takes my other nipple, sucking hard, teeth scraping.
I cry out. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me.
He bites down just shy of pain, and my hips buck involuntarily. "Hendricks—"
His hand slides between my legs, two fingers driving into me without warning. Deep. Rough.
"Yes," I breathe when he curls them, finding a spot that makes me cry out.
His thumb presses against my clit—hard, unrelenting—and I'm already climbing. My body knows what it needs—what it's always needed.
Him.
"Harder," I tell him.
He doesn't hesitate. His fingers pump into me, rubbing inside me just right, his other hand gripping my hip to hold me in place. His mouth moves to my throat, teeth grazing below my ear.
It builds fast and violent. I'm wound so tight I can barely breathe. I know my fingers are digging into him, my nails scratching him, but I can’t let go.
"Come, Amanda," he says against my skin, his teeth nipping the base of my neck.
Just like that I do.
It rips through me—sharp and consuming—and I cry out his name as my body convulses around his fingers. He doesn't stop; he keeps working me through it, making me ride out each wave until I'm shaking and gasping.
When I finally come down, he withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting me like he’s filing away my flavor profile along with all my other stats.
"Again," he says.
Before I can respond, he moves down my body—no preamble, no teasing. His mouth is on me, tongue sliding through my pussy, as if he needs to try it from the source.
I arch off the bed, hands gripping the sheets.
He's not gentle—he's relentless. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he devours me like he's been starving for this.
When he slides two fingers back inside me, I shatter again. This orgasm is deeper, longer, and he stays with me through all of it, coaxing the next one and the one after that.
I finally go limp, and he kisses his way back up my body.
Kneeling, he reaches for the nightstand, pulling out a condom, and rolls it on. Then he's between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Look at me."
I do. How can I not?
His gray eyes are dark, molten. Watching me with that same intensity he's had since the beginning. He rubs the head of his cock over me before pushing it inside in one slow, deliberate thrust.
I gasp at the stretch. It’s laughable that I tried to convince myself he had a pencil dick. He's thick and hard and filling me completely. I’ve never felt anything like it. I don’t know if it’s too much or not enough, but I know I don’t want it to end.
"Fuck," he breathes, his jaw tight. "You feel—"
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him close. "Don't stop."
He chuckles humorlessly. “No fucking chance of that.”
He pulls out and drives back in—harder this time. Then again. And again. Each thrust is controlled, precise, devastating. Then his hand moves to my throat, fingers curling around it—not squeezing, just holding. A claim.
I cry out, letting myself melt in his hands. “Adrian.”
His hips snap forward, fucking me with the kind of intensity that makes my vision blur. His other hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, holding me in place as he takes me.
This is what I need—what my body was conditioned to crave. The roughness. The loss of control. And he's giving it to me without hesitation, without judgment. He reads every gasp, every moan, every shift of my body, and adjusts—harder, deeper, exactly what I need to let go.
"Come for me. Let me feel it.” His hand at my hip moves, and his thumb finds my clit, pressing hard. "Let me feel it."
I break. The orgasm tears through me—violent and all-consuming—and I cry out his name as my body convulses around him.
He follows me over, his hips stuttering as he comes with a low groan, his forehead pressed against mine.
Then stillness.
For a moment, we just breathe. Finally, he pulls out slowly, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside me. His arm wraps around my waist and he pulls me into him.
Hendricks—a cuddler? Who’d have thought?
I snuggle into him, which is also mind-blowing, because I’ve never snuggled before. I lie there, trembling in his embrace, cheek pressed to his chest.
It feels safe—physically and emotionally.
I turn my head to look at him. He's watching me, his gray eyes steady and unreadable.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
I nod, even though it's a lie. I'm not okay. Because for the first time in thirteen years, I’m not thinking about how to escape. I’m wondering what it would take to stay.