He laughs, wickedly.
“I'm afraid I'm going to need the words, love.”
If he keeps it up, I'm going to come again from just his words.
“Yes,” I manage to grind out, craving the sweet friction of his body against mine. “Yes — gods, please, yes.” I know I'm on the very edge of babbling, but I don't care.
The entirety of my universe has come down to this male and the sharp, sweet need pulsing between my thighs.
Finally, he presses into me, slowly. Inch by inch. As wet as I am, as needy as he's made me, I still need a chance to adjust to the size of him. I'm doing my damnedest to not babble incoherently as he stretches me in all the best possible ways until finally, he bottoms out with a broken sound, almost a whimper. I cry out, clawing at the skin covering his muscled back, overwhelmed by how full I feel in this moment.
Howright.
He stills above me and I can feel him shaking with the need to move, to take, to own. His breathing is ragged as he says, “Fuck, you feel like home.”
Then, he begins to move.
Long, deep strokes. The kind that make my whole body rock with each thrust. He braces one hand near my head, another on the back of the couch, and watches me — watches every reaction with the intensity of a starving man.
“You look so godsdamn good like this,” he pants. “Eyes glassy, lips swollen, and full of me.”
I lift my legs and lock my ankles behind his back, drawing him in even deeper. He lets his head fall back and moans, deeply.
“Harder,” I gasp. “I can take it.”
“You sure?”
“I need it. I need you.”
He whimpers and I have a fleeting moment of awe, that I can bring this giant male to his knees.
Then he adjusts his grip, bracing himself and locking his jaw. And he fucks me like he means to brand me from the inside out.
Every thrust slams into me with enough force to knock my breath loose. I reach up, bracing one hand against the arm of the couch to give me some leverage, as I meet him thrust for thrust. My other hand tries to find purchase on his sweat slicked shoulder, nails digging into his skin. He doesn't slow, doesn't let me try to catch up.
His rhythm is punishing. Perfect. Primal.
“You missed this,” he grits out. “I can feel it. This body, your body, remembers me, even if you don't.”
“Gods. Flint. Don't. Don't stop–”
“Say. It. Again.” Each word punctuated by a deep, hard thrust.
“Flint.”
Thrust.
“Don't.”
Thrust.
“Stop.”
He reaches down with one hand, circling my clit and growls, “good girl” low in his throat.
My third orgasm of the evening sneaks up like awave, and crashes through me harder than any other. I scream his name, my legs trembling, body convulsing under him — and he doesn't stop.
He slows only when I'm panting, shaking, sweating, my body limp with aftershocks. He leans down, our bodies still joined, and kisses me softly.
