"Feel that?" he said.
"Yes," I gasped.
"Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes."
"That's where I'm going to put my baby." His hands tightened on my hips. "Right there. Deep as I can get." He pulled back slow, slow, slow, until I felt the loss of him, and then drove back in hard and I cried out into the quilt. "You're going to take every drop I give you."
"I will?—"
"Every night." Another stroke. Deep and deliberate. "You're going to be in this bed every night and I'm going to fill you up and you're going to keep it."
"Please—"
"Please what."
"More," I said. "Harder. Please, Gage, please?—"
He gave me more.
The rhythm he built was relentless—deep, driving strokes that rocked me forward into the quilt and his hands on my hips pulling me back to meet him every time, and I was loud about it, embarrassingly loud, the headboard against the wall and his hips against my ass and the wet filthy sounds of it all mixing together in this tiny limestone cottage in the Hill Country and I did not care, I could not care, I had left caring somewhere around the parking lot.
His hand came around to my front and found my clit and I jerked.
"Stay still," he said.
"I can't?—"
"You can." His fingers worked slow circles even as his hips kept their pace. I was going to come apart completely and he knew it. "You're going to come on my cock like my perfect girl.”
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, I'm your—I'm your good girl, I'm?—"
"I know you are." His fingers didn't stop. His hips didn't stop. "Come for me."
I came.
Hard and clenching and loud, my face in the quilt, his name in my mouth, my whole body shaking with it, and he worked me through every second—fingers and cock and hands and mouth hot on the back of my neck—until I was trembling and oversensitive and trying to pull away.
He didn't let me pull away.
"Again," he said.
"I can't?—"
"You can." He slowed his hips but didn't stop. Let me catch my breath. His hand moved from my clit to my hip, stroking. Patient. "You can give me one more."
"Gage—"
"One more," he said. "Then I'll give you what you came here for."
I pressed my face into the quilt.
"Okay," I said, muffled.
He built it slower this time. Like he had all night, which he did, which I was only now fully understanding. Long deep strokes, his hand moving back to my clit with that same focused attention he brought to everything, and I felt myself climbing again despite every protest my body was making about sensitivity and overstimulation and the general state of affairs.
"That's it," he said, low. "There you go."
