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He doesn’t make me wait any longer, arranging himself on all fours, back facing me and arched up.
“Oh god,” I mutter, shuffling forward so we’re both in position.
His skin is warm when I rest my hands on his lower back to get adjusted. I dip a finger through his crack and can’t hold back the moan at how slick it still is. His hole gives way easily, and it’s sexy as hell how loose and open he is for me.
The lube is too far up the bed for me to reach, but ever observant, Corvin catches my stare and tosses the bottle back to me.
It’s not easy or dignified how I fumble to pour a generous amount over the dildo, and I’m hit with a sense of euphoria I haven’t felt in a while. One of the reasons I love sex as much as I do.
It’s not the orgasms.
It’s connecting with a part of myself that I’m told I’ll never truly have. None of the girls I’ve fucked have cared that my dick is made of silicone. They care that I’m attentive. That I can focus on their pleasure without chasing my own.
It’s what makes sex with Corvin feel so off balance.
My pleasure.
My pain.
My body.
Even what’s happening now. It’s like I’m only useful when I’m being broken.
And the masochistic part of my brain loves it. Loves knowing that I can give my partner what he needs without having to prove my masculinity to do it.
It’s awkward getting lined up and keeping my balance, but I watch—mesmerized—as the tip of the dildo presses against Corvin’s rim and it just gives.
Opens up like it’s been waiting to take me inside.
I rest my hands on his back as I work my way inside, soaking up the grunts and rumbled moans that fall past his lips like a landslide.
A hand reaches back to slap my thigh, and I jolt a good half of the dick into him.
“Fuck me like you mean it, firecracker.”
The challenge in his voice lights my skin on fire. I dig my nails into his skin and thrust my hips forward until every visible inch of dick is buried in Corvin’s ass.
And he howls for it.
“Good boy,” he moans.
Another slap and any thoughts of warming up to sex is gone. I pull out until just the tip is left inside and then slam back in hard enough to bruise my hip bone.
All the air in my lungs evaporates. The ache echoing like a cavern of pain loses circulation—leaving nothing but hot breath and sex.
Sex with blood under my fingernails and an ache in my hips that snaps me to life. Breaks through the fog and shattered pieces holding me in place.
I drag my hands up Corvin’s back, grip his shoulders, and pound into him at an angle that leaves him panting out a set of broken moans.
Even like this he’s still so put together, giving me what I need from him and nothing more.
“Sweetheart.”
I don’t slow down, but I fold myself over his back so he knows I’m listening.
“God, you’re good at this.” He chuckles as I press my forehead to his shoulder. “Let me flip over. I want to see you like this.”
I press my thumbs into the groove at the base of his neck and close my eyes, focusing on the rhythm of our bodies.
