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He moves a little deeper, so that I nod, but it’s not enough.
‘More...’
He laughs, pulling out of me and guiding me off the stool at the same time.
‘Turn around.’
‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a bossy son of a bitch in bed?’
‘We’re not in bed,’ he reminds me frankly, and there’s a sexy, sardonic smile at the corner of his lips.
‘You’re a bossy son of a bitch to fuck,’ I correct dutifully, and he laughs.
‘You’re complaining?’
I shoot him a look over my shoulder and do as he says, turning around.
‘Those fucking heels...’ he says, bending me at my waist and spreading my legs before taking me from behind, his fingers digging into my naked arse. ‘You have no idea how hot this is.’
But I do, because he’s driving me to the point of distraction with every single move. Fire spirals inside me, coiling, spinning, taking me and making me fall apart in his arms.
The kitchen bench is marble and cold beneath my fevered palms. And then he brings the palm of his hand down on my arse and I jerk, crying out as both pleasure and pain radiate through me.
‘Did you know you have a mark here from me?’ He presses into what I presume must be a hickey from the last time we were together.
I shake my head and he catches my ponytail in his hand, pulling it with just enough pressure to hold me still as he thrusts inside me. His other hand trails down my spine, chasing each knot, each groove, until he reaches my arse. Once again he presses a single finger against me, and there is something so illicit and forbidden about it that I come—out of nowhere.
The orgasm is intense. He’s only touching my skin, there is nothing invasive about his finger, but just the idea of what I’d let him do to me makes me fall apart.
‘Shit...’ I swear under my breath, sweat across my brow.
His finger pushes in a little way and I buck hard. His dick thrusts into me and his hand around my hair pulls. It’s too much. The pleasure is making me weak.
‘I can’t...’ I say, my breath coming in pants, my eyes fevered, my body wet.
‘You can do whatever you want,’ he contradicts, and brings his mouth to my back.
But he moves his hand away, bringing it to cup my breasts and torment my nipples. I have never known sex like this. I have never been an instrument of pleasure. I always call the shots and yet now I am his to control, to command, and there is something so hedonistic about that I know I will never be the same again.
‘You are so much more perfect than I imagined,’ he groans, and now he thrusts deeper and harder and faster, and I rock my hips with him until we fall apart together, him exploding inside me while I tremble and squeeze him tight.
I bring my weight forward, pressing my head onto the marble kitchen bench, not wanting to lose him.
He belongs inside me.
It’s an erroneous thought. No one person can belong to another—inside or out.
‘I needed that.’
He steps away from me as though he’s sated, when I’m satisfied and still needy all at once.
‘You and me both.’
I walk around the kitchen bench on legs that are wobbly as all hell. I sip some of my drink, my eyes linked to his. But he’s staring at my breasts. Bemused, I look down and see that they’re red from his stubble.
His jaw is clenched and he looks away.
Something jars in my mind. A memory I can’t quite grab, like finding soap in the bath.
