Page 15 of A Quick Pit Stop

“Yeah?” He sinks deeper, inch by thick inch, watching my face twist. “I’m starting to think you’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

I throw my head back against the pillows, a sob catching in my throat. He’s huge. Bigger than I’ve ever taken. I’ve never felt a stretch like this. My body wants to push him out, to tighten against the invasion, but I force myself to relax, to welcome him in, to take every last inch he’s giving me. “Don’t underestimate me,” I grit out. “If I want something hard enough…fuck… I’ll take it.”

“Hard enough, huh?” He slams the rest of the way inside with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

I scream, my back arching off the bed, hands scrabbling at the bedspread and the cheap sheets beneath it. For a second, all I can feel is blinding pain. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I just lie there, impaled on his cock, my body struggling to accept him.

“Too much?” he murmurs, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, balls deep, letting me feel his weight, his size, every throbbing inch of him.

I shake my head. Tears are streaming down my face. I reach down and grab his thighs, fingers digging into hard muscle. “No. It’s… perfect. You’re perfect.”

“God, you’re a fucking masochist,” he says, sounding equal parts horrified and impressed.

“I’m whatever you need me to be. A hole to fuck. A mouth to use. A body to bruise. I don’t care.”

He lowers himself onto his elbows, his chest crushing against mine. He’s so heavy. “Stop that,” he murmurs. His breath is hot on my cheek.

“Stop what?”

“Selling yourself short.”

I’m so confused, I can’t speak. I came here to be used. That’s the whole point. To be a vessel for his anger. And instead, I’m getting... tenderness?

“Look at me,” he commands.

I open my eyes. His face is right above mine. Those eyes are burning, but there’s a warmth in them I wasn’t expecting.

“From now on,” he says, “you don’t talk about yourself like that. Understand? Not in front of me. You’re not a hole, or a mouth, or a fucking toy. You’re just Ryan.”

He pulls out almost all the way, leaving me empty and aching, then drives back in hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. I cry out again, but this time pain and pleasure blur into the same thing.

“Ryan,” he says again, thrusting. “Just Ryan. Do you understand me?”

All I can do is nod, my teeth chattering, my whole body vibrating.

Then he lets loose. Punishing strokes, his hips snapping against my ass, the bed groaning with every thrust. The room fills with ragged breaths, grunts, the wet slap of skin on skin. He’s watching me, face tight with concentration, sweat beading on his temples as he pounds into me again and again. My own sounds spill out of me, whimpers and needy moans I couldn’t stop if I tried.

I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking everything he’s giving me and begging for more. The sting fades into a deep, satisfying ache that radiates through my whole body. The dolphin painting rattles on thewall. The cheap mattress is doing nothing to cushion the force of him.

I’m a mess. Drooling, sobbing, babbling nonsense. Sweat drips into my eyes, making them sting. But even through the blur, I can’t stop looking at him. His muscles bunching and releasing, the fire in those eyes, the possessive look on his face as he claims my body. This is what I wanted. This is what I craved. A man who isn’t afraid to let go, to be rough, to take what he wants. But the gentleness underneath, how he keeps saying my name between thrusts... That’s the part that’s ruining me.

His big feet press into the mattress for leverage, toes splayed, arches straining. I think about how they tasted, how they smelled, and my cock pulses hard against my stomach.

“Harder,” I gasp. “Fuck me harder.”

He reaches down and wraps a hand around my throat. “You’re not in charge here, remember?”

His fingers tighten just enough to cut off a sliver of my air. My vision swims. The world narrows to the feeling of him inside me, his weight pinning me down, the pressure on my throat. It’s a heady rush. I don’t know why I love it so much, but I do. I’m not a small guy. But under him, I feel small. And I love it.

“God, yes,” I choke out, grabbing his wrist, not to push him away but to hold him there. “Let me feel your strength, Dominic. Let me feel your anger. Spit in my face.”

He leans down, putting more weight on my throat, and growls in my ear. “What did I just say about talking about yourself like that?”

“Do it,” I beg. “Please. It’s not about me, it’s about you. Your anger. Your frustration. Let me take it. And fuck, it turns me on. So spit in my face.”

And then he does. With my mouth hanging open, gasping for air, he spits right on my tongue. A warm, thick glob that slides down my throat. I swallow instantly, greedily. A shudder racksmy body from my scalp to my toes, and my dick jerks against my stomach. It’s almost as intimate as a kiss. The next best thing, anyway. To have not only swallowed his cum, but now this too. All of him, in me, on me, around me.

He lets go of my throat. I gasp, my lungs filling with the stale, cigarette-tinged air of the room.