“Atticus,” I moan, ignoring the urge to buck into him. He’s told me to be good, and I intend to listen.
From his knees, Atticus raises a hand and rolls my balls against his palm, taking me higher still. His mouth is sucking me with a vengeance, and I scratch at my own skin from where my hands are still safely tucked behind my back.
“Please,” I beg, my body tightening with each passing moment. “I need to come.”
Atticus makes a sound of approval, telling me yes, I can.
And that’s really all it takes. With the visual of his big hazel eyes staring up at me, his brown hair matting with sweat, andhis lips stretching around me so obscenely, I was never going to last long.
Not when I’m so infatuated with him. Not when I’ve wanted him from such an early age.
“Yes, yes!” I cry, unloading his mouth in several heady bursts.
Atticus must really like me, must really enjoy the time we spend together, because he groans almost as loudly as I sob, drinking down my release with no hesitation.
He gulps and gulps, throat working and eyes watering.
As I finally come down, sagging against the back of the couch, I sigh. Sated and pleased.
Atticus pops off of me, gifting me a few extra licks of his hot tongue to make sure I’m clean.
“Was that good, sweetheart?” he asks, nuzzling my thigh.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“Good. As a thank you, I’ll be taking your ass.” He says it with so much finality, so confidently, that another wave of pleasure hits me, making me shake. “Up. I want you to ride me on this couch.”
I’m scrambling to listen to him, and as he stretches me with his fingers, using his own arousal as lube, I rest my head on his shoulder and think of how lucky I am.
That at the end of a hard day, I have someone so beautiful, so demanding waiting for me.
“You’re so handsome,” I whisper, unable to hold in the emotion I’m feeling.
Atticus’s hand stutters before it pulls away completely. I hear him spit into his palm, and a moment later, his head is pressed to my hole.
“Yeah? Am I so handsome, sweetheart?” he teases, his hands tugging my hips until I begin to sink onto him.
“Ugh, yes,” I grunt. “S-so handsome.”
He hums in approval, his palms running up my chest now that I’m seated fully. “Then show me how much you want me. Fuck my cock, baby.”
I ride him. I ride him for so long that my legs shake and burn and my eyes drip tears of pleasure.
All the while, Atticus stares up at me, his gaze full of admiration and possession.
“Say you’re mine, Cam,” he commands, hips snapping up as he gets closer and closer to a ledge I’m peaking for the second time in far too short a span.
“I’m yours,” I choke out, feeling his cockhead rub that spot inside of me that makes me fly.
“Again,” he groans.
“I’m yours, Atticus.”
And as he explodes inside of me with a shout, once again marking my body as his own, I want to sob.
Not because of the pleasure—though that does play a part—but because hewantsto own me. Atticus Chastain wants me as badly as I want him.
And I fear if I ever lose this, if he is ever taken from my greedy hands, everything around me will fall apart.
