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He thrusts and thrusts repeatedly, pushing me up on the table and then dragging me back to him at the hips. By now, all pretense of gentleness is gone. His hold is forceful, his movements sharp and urgent. Ferocious. Wild.
It all feels rather cold and impersonal, me lying back on the table, staring up at him while he, standing, is only touching me at my hips and where his cock is buried deep inside me. His glazed over eyes stare into mine, posture stiff with tension, his gorgeous features flushed.
I grip the edge of the table with my palms to hold myself in place as he slams into me over and over, knocking my breath away. This cold, distant fuck is turning me on, and I moan, though I can’t move my hips to meet his thrusts.
It takes him a while…and that’s surprising me, too. I had no idea that sex lasted longer than five or ten minutes.
He’s been working me for longer than that. But after some time, I detect that he’s approaching his own climax—only because that’s when he suddenly slows his relentless thrusting. He breathes in deeply, over and over again in an attempt to regain control while moving his hips in shallow circles. He’s fighting his own orgasm, actively prolonging the act. Making this moment of deep, bone-aching pleasure last even longer. I feel every movement where we are connected down to my toes, in every millimeter of my skin.
I’m still staring at his face, but his eyes are fixed on my breasts as they bounce with the motion of his body. Suddenly he stops, and the sheen of his muscles coated in sweat fascinates me. Breathing hoarsely but without a word, he bends and snaps up one of my nipples into his mouth, sucking fiercely. I gasp, arching to push it deeper into his mouth, and he begins to bite me, that sharp pain matching the pinch inside me where his cock is hitting against my inner wall. His thrusts are short and shallow now and he’s coaxing me closer to the edge, moving to the other nipple to bite it while pinching the first between thumb and forefinger.
And that’s all I need—it’s almost without effort this time that I’m up and over the edge, shattering into a million pieces as gorgeous pleasure washes over me again. But this time, it’s different because of that full sensation where his hard cock is inside me, stretching me like an immovable rod of iron. I contract around him, locking my legs around his hips as I let go. His breath is ragged as he stills, eyes closed, savoring the feel of my orgasm as the contractions clasp his cock over and over again.
His heavy breathing is only punctuated by moans in his deep baritone. But instead of resuming his thrusts to finish himself, as I was expecting, he suddenly pulls out of me. He tears off the condom and with his savage eyes burning into mine, he pumps his fist over his cock once, twice. And he’s coming.
I watch in fascination as his hot semen spurts across my abdomen. He holds himself still as he continues to come, his spray spreading across my stomach like abstract art. This is such a surreal moment, and yet I find it incredibly hot—surprisingly so. I’m breathing heavily now, looking up at him as his eyes slide over me, from my neck, my breasts, my stomach.
I swallow, as he pulls my high-heel-clad feet widely apart on the table. Then he snatches up my right hand and presses it against my clit. “Touch yourself,” he orders.
I take a deep breath, puzzled. I’ve had two orgasms already. I don’t even think I’m capable of more. But that command in his voice—and my promise to obey—are still fresh in my mind. Slowly I move my hand against my clit.
His eyes lower to the movement, watching me. “Don’t take your eyes away from me, Madeline. You won’t think of anyone else but me when you come again.”
I’d almost laugh at that if I wasn’t so turned on. As if I even could. “No. Of course not.”
He’s breathing deeply again, clearly feeling new arousal as he watches me, and I’m wondering if I have the energy—or the desire—to come again. Both the orgasms I just enjoyed were head and shoulders above anything I’ve ever had before. And I’ve never had three in one night. Let alone in one hour.
But he’s clearly not concerned. His hands reach out to me, splaying across my belly, still coated with his semen. He begins to spread the sticky liquid across my stomach, breasts, and lower, as if he’s massaging me with it. It’s warm and under his hands it feels so good. His hands move to my nipples, the contact there sticking as he pinches and rolls them between his fingers. He’s completely painted my stomach and chest, up to my neck with his come, all the while ordering me to rub myself.
And I’m close again, closing my eyes, I moan.
His voice grates harshly at my ear. “I’ve marked you, Madeline. How do you like feeling me all over your skin?”
Everywhere his hands aren’t, the liquid is cooling now. I shiver, but with more than with just cold. His possession, his claiming, have aroused me to yet another level.
“It feels so good,” I moan.
“Yes. Remember that. I’ve taken you. Claimed you. Marked you. Now, you’re mine. Say my name when you come.”
“Evan,” I moan.
He pinches my nipples again as if in reward for my obedience. My hand moves faster between my legs, and his hands are all over me again, rubbing himself into me. “Mine,” he growls.
“Evan,” I breathe. I’m almost there, right at the edge.
“Tell me whose you are.”
“I—am—yours,” I say between grunts and gasps as my hand moves faster. And the orgasm blooms, this one feeling different, subtle, rolling in waves and lasting longer than the others, but lacking the intensity that he’d evoked. It occurs to me that this is how my self-induced orgasms have always felt before he began to touch me today and ratcheted up the standard to an all-new high.
Like this night is the first incredible hit of a drug. I’m in danger of becoming addicted to his touch. When my orgasm finally fades, I open my eyes, and he’s watching me. He leans forward, bends over me to kiss me hard on the mouth. Where his body touches mine, his semen causes our skin to stick together. Impossibly, his cock is erect again. I can feel it against my leg.
“Fucking hell, Madeline. Just the sight of you covered in my come is enough to make me painfully hard all over again.” He pulls back, looking into my face, pushing my matted hair away from where it sticks to my forehead. “You might need to rest, though…” His voice dwindles, but there’s a strange tone to it. Almost like a challenge.
I smile, lick my dry lips. “And you don’t?”
He grins that wicked grin. “Ah, not yet.”
I suck in a breath, overwhelmed with the desire to impress him...to please him. “Then…neither do I.”
