Page 40 of Locked & Loaded

And Mads is still going slow, still careful, still paying attention to every sound I make.

When I turn my head again, he kisses me. His fingers press deeper, his hand strokes faster, and the pleasure builds until I’m shaking with it, my whole body pulled tight.

His mouth breaks from mine, his breath hot against my cheek.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, beyond words, and feel him reach for the condom.

I hear the foil tear. Then the quiet rustle of him rolling it on, the slick sound of lube, and the bed shifting as he moves behind me again.

His hands find my hips. His thumbs press into the small of my back, and I feel the blunt pressure of his cock against my hole.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice so rough it’s barely a whisper.

“God, yes,” I say into the sheets. “Please, fuck me.”

He pushes.

The head of his cock breaches me, and the stretch burns, deep and radiating, enough to make my thighs shake. I gasp, fingers clutching at the sheets, and Mads goes still behind me.

“Chris—”

“I’m good,” I manage, my voice tight. “Just—keep going.”

He pushes deeper, inch by careful inch, and the burn spreads through me, almost too much. My body fights him for a second, clenching around the intrusion, but then I force myself to breathe and open for him.

“Fuck,” Mads breathes. “Chris, you feel so good.”

His cock slides deeper, filling me, and when he bottoms out—his hips pressed against my ass, his cock buried inside me to the hilt—the air leaves my lungs in one ragged exhale.

We stay like that for a moment. Him inside me. Both of us shaking. The only sound is our breathing in the quiet room.

Then his hands tighten on my hips, and he pulls back.

The drag of his cock against my insides pulls a groan out of me, raw and involuntary. He pushes back in, slow as hell, and the second stroke is easier than the first. The burn starts to soften, giving way to pressure that builds low in my spine.

“Chris,” Mads says again, and this time it sounds almost like a prayer.

He finds a rhythm, pulling out and pushing back in, each thrust sending a shock of pleasure through me that leaves me dizzy. His fingers dig into my hips, and the slight sting of it only makes everything sharper. Better.

I drop my chest to the mattress, my ass still up, and the change of angle makes him hit my prostate on the next stroke.

The pleasure is so sudden that I moan into the sheets, my whole body jerking.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Right there. Do that again.”

He does.

His next thrust finds the spot perfectly, and the pleasure hits me white-hot. My cock throbs between my legs, and I’m making sounds I don’t recognize—wrecked, desperate noises that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.

Mads’s breathing is ragged behind me, his hips stuttering, and I can feel the tension in him. He’s holding himself back, fighting his own pleasure to make sure I’m okay.

It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.

Then his hands are on my shoulders, pulling me up.

I’m too far gone to resist. He drags me back against his chest, one arm around my waist, the other hand finding my throat. He holds me there without choking me, just enough pressure to keep me pressed to him, and the new angle is—