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He is large. So much larger than I’ve ever had. I raise fearful eyes to his, and instead of wearing the smirk like I’d think he’d have, he stares at me with such intensity that my heart skips a beat. No one has looked at me that way before.
Grabbing my wrist, he guides my hand and wraps my fingers around his warm length. My fingers only go three-fourths of the way around him, but that doesn’t seem to bother him because he closes his eyes and bends his head forward, shuttering.
I look back to his cock, to my hand, and begin to stroke him. For something so hard, it’s incredibly smooth. His abs shift and ripple with each pass of my hand. A shaky breath is released when he parts his lips and looks at me from under his lashes. God, that look. It’s so readable, those ‘fuck me’ eyes, and it’s hard to believe that they’re directed at me.
He lifts a hand and slides it up my arm until his palm and fingers are wrapped around my throat. Just over my pulse, he presses his thumb.
This action should make me afraid, I realize. But I find it completely thrilling. He could kill me.Easily. It would take seconds, and I’d never breathe again. For someone who fears death so much, I seem to have a death wish when it comes to him.
He bends forward and roughly takes my mouth as I continue to pump my hand up and down his length. The kiss is hot, demanding, and in a way, rewarding. I respond in kind, just as eager as him to get one more taste. Our tongues push into each other’s mouths, but the way he kisses me tells me he’s in charge. It only serves to make me more wet, and I tremble with absolute need. I don’t know how he’s going to fit, but damn it, I want him.
Time seems to slow, but eventually, he quickly wraps his arms around me, lifts me up, and turns me away from him. He sets me on my feet and gently bites a sensitive spot at the back of my neck, almost as if he just can’t help himself.
I moan as he slides down my shorts, and when he bends me over the back of the couch, I feel his corded muscles shift against my spine. He collars my throat again and squeezes a little. The blood gets trapped in my face, but it only serves to excite me, to make my nipples tighten to painful little buds that rub against the roughness of the old couch.
My pussy pulses, anticipating what comes next, but when he notches at my entrance, my body shakes, and I suddenly have doubts. I squeak, “What if it doesn’t fit?”
“It’ll fit,” he grunts.
“W-will it hurt?” I’m trembling now, more afraid of his cock than his hand threatening to cut off my air supply.
“Probably,” he says, his voice husky. I get the feeling that he gets off on this - the possible pain and the hand on my pulse. I wonder at it, for a second, wonder if it has something to do with the reason he barely speaks. It’s as though he thinks if he does, he’ll give away a piece of himself that he tries so hard to keep tucked away. A dark past maybe?
No, not maybe. He went to jail. He definitely has a dark past.
I nod and squeeze my eyes shut. As soon as I do, he shoves inside. I’m so wet that it goes in in one smooth motion.
Arching my back, I scream at the pain of my pussy stretching to meet his size. “Fuck,” I hear him hiss. His hand tightens just a little more, and the blood rushes to my face, but he loosens his grip before I get anywhere near blacking out.
And then he starts to move. Tears prick my eyes, and I whimper at first, my walls stretching impossibly too wide, but after a few pumps, my whimpers turn into breathy moans. The pain turns into intense pleasure, and I barely notice his other hand digging into my hips to make sure I stay exactly where he wants me.
“So fucking tight, Tegan,” he murmurs in a voice so deep that I almost can’t make out the words. “Does it still hurt?” he taunts, and I get the feeling he’s daring me to deny it.
Deciding to answer anyway, I shake my head against his hand and push back against him, begging for more. His fingers dig into my hips, his short nails biting my curves. It only serves to heighten my impossibly high arousal.
“Speak, sweetheart.” I think this is the most he’s everspoken to me without me prompting the conversation or ending it in threatening tones. I like it, the demanding husky tone, the deep gravelly voice that’s laced with lust. The need to control every part of me for his own pleasure. Why do I get off on it?
“More,” I whisper because, although it was painful in the beginning, I realize that I enjoyed the pain as much as he did delivering it.
He squeezes my neck. “More what?”
“More please,” I rasp. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”
He doesn’t release the hold of his collar as he picks up the pace and pounds into me. The bite of pain, the pressure of pleasure. My lower abdomen blazes as I fight for air. But I trust him. I don’t know why, but I justknowhe has no intention of killing me. The thrill of it, the knowledge that he could easily do so, and the sensations send me over the edge.
My voice is raspy when I scream my release.
“Fuck,” he hisses again, releasing my neck, grabbing my other hip, and pounding into me so hard that the couch starts to scoot forward. “That’s it, sweetheart. All over my cock.”
The orgasm seems to last forever. Heat courses through my body like hot flashes as my pussy ripples around his length, coating him with my cum. My scream turns into loud moans, and when he starts groaning curses, I know that he’s right there with me.
His pumps slow as he cums, and I can feel his body trembling behind me. And when he’s done, he stills completely before gently pulling out.
I look over my shoulder and watch him as he heads to the kitchen while pulling up his jeans. “Don’t move,” he murmurs. His back is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and I marvel at it until he disappears around the corner.
Running a hand through my hair, I try to calm my racing heart. Jesus shit, we just fucked. I fucked an ex-con. For all I know, he could be a serial killer.
I hold in a nervous laugh.
