“I want you to fuck my throat. I want you to,” I say. “Make me cry while I touch myself. It’s all I can think about.” Maybe he did ruin me. Maybe if I’d never met him by the river that night, I would have had sex with Liam earlier. I would have even been satisfied with that.
But that isn’t what happened. He rewired something in my brain. Or maybe I would have been like this anyway. There’s no way to know. No way to separate who I could have been with who I am now. There’s only lust. Only this.
Strong hands come to rest on my head.
Only that, and I sink into some strange place in my mind. He isn’t even forcing me to do anything, isn’t pushing me forward and back, but the strength of him is unmistakable.
My fingers are clumsy with the hard denim of his jeans. He’s already thick beneath the zipper, and even without experience, I know what it means. It means he wants me.
When I get the zipper down, his cock springs out, thick and pale and ridged with veins. A gasp escapes me, which makes me sound like the untried virgin that I am. I expected there to be something constraining him. Boxers or something like that, but there’s nothing. Only his cock, pulsing with expectation. Larger than I ever imagined.
The musky scent of him works its way into my lungs, into my memories, so deep I don’t think it will ever really leave. He doesn’t make any move to rush me, but lets me study him. The time doesn’t make me any more certain. If anything, I’m intimidated by him. Maybe that’s the point.
But I started this, and I’m going to finish it. Going to see if the reality of this is anywhere near as good as the fantasy. Going to see if I come as hard beneath his hands as I did beneath his words.
My hands are trembling only a little as I take hold of his smooth, marble-hard length. I press my face to his warm, slightly furred belly. I squeeze.
He groans. “Can’t,” he pants. His fingers are clutching my scalp.
Can, I think. We can. “Only you,” I say.
I touch my tongue to the glistening droplet at the tip of him. He lets out a garbled cry. Strangled desire. Holding himself back from this, even as I finally, finally let myself go.
Dizziness washes over me at the salty taste. I fit my lips around his head. I can feel the tremor all the way through him. Or maybe I’m the one shaking, coming apart at my seams, not fitting back together in any order that I knew before.
My other hand moves back down between my legs. I touch myself as I take him into my mouth, just the way he said to on the phone. He feels impossibly huge. I’m riding a tidal wave of feeling, and I want him to fill me, to make him cry, to be everywhere in me. I feel like I could come in an instant. At the same time it feels like we could do this forever.
His breath gusts wild. He fits my hand around the base of him. “Squeeze, baby.”
I squeeze.
A string of unintelligible words tears from his lips as I increase the pressure—swear words mixed with other words I don’t understand. “Harder. Tighter. Let me feel you.”
Except he doesn’t wait for me to obey him.
He rocks into me, slowly, gently. The rhythm of him feels ancient. Savage. It’s like he’s using me, and the realization is hotter than my fingers against my clit. An imprinting so primal that it’s in my DNA, the knowledge that I should open my mouth to him, that he should fill it.
“Yes,” he grunts. “Fucking take it.”
There’s a sound I make. I think it might have been a word—yes or God or please. I’m too mindless to know, his cock too far inside me to let me speak. It comes out as a hum. When he moans, I realize that he can feel the vibrations on his cock. That’s how close we are right now. So deep inside me that he can feel the words I can’t say.
“Touch yourself,” he says.
And I realize I had stopped, lost in the surrender to him. My legs are spread wide as I kneel on the wood floor. I’m shameful and unashamed. I’m needy and satiated. When I touch my forefinger to my clit, the sensation is sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. This isn’t like in my bed, when I could rub myself, again and again, in that one special spot. The need is too much, the ache almost pain, and I have to make circles instead.
I stroke myself to his rhythm, lost in him, in the surge of us together.
“You like that, little bird?” His expression is dark, knowing. He already sees everything that I feel. He wants me to nod with my mouth full of him, my eyes wide and pleading.
Something gentles in his eyes. “You can’t get off, can you? Your fingers are all slippery. I can see them shining from here. You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
My hand clenches into a fist, slick with my juices like he said. I don’t know why I can’t do this. Is this because I’m a virgin? Or because there’s something wrong with me?
He pushes his boot between my legs. “There,” he says, like he’s given me something.
I blink at him, uncomprehending, even as a spurt of salty precum coats my tongue. My throat works on its own, swallowing him down. My tongue rolls along the ridge of him, making his eyelids drop to half-mast. How does this come so naturally to me? Pleasuring him?
And why can’t I do the same to myself?
It feels good, but I’m hovering on the edge of it. I’m trapped here.
“Go ahead,” he says, coaxing. “Fuck yourself.”
The curved toe of his boot nudges me in the most private place, gentle but still coarse, the curved toe of his boot. And I realize what he wants me to do. To press my sex against the smooth leather. To rock my hips like that while I soak his boot with my arousal.
The humiliation of it does something to my brain. It makes everything sharper, clearer. And when I position my knees around his leg, it feels a little like coming home.
Finding the exact right angle is awkward, but that just makes it better. The way I have to tilt my hips to get friction for my clit, the way he doesn’t let me release his cock, the way he watches me the whole time. God. And then my clit does rub against the leather, with exactly the right amount of pleasure, and my eyes roll back.
“That’s right,” he says, grasping my hair tighter.
I thought he had taken control of this act before, but it’s nothing compared to now. Now he holds my head steady, fucking my face with long, hard strokes. It’s hard to breathe, because I can’t even focus on it. Breathing doesn’t feel important when my hips are rocking against his boot, when there’s pressure building in my sex. When I’m one second away from exploding.
“Yeah, that’s how you want it, isn’t it? That’s how you need it, little bird. Hard and fucking dirty. And I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
I moan my agreement, feeling the climax collect above me like a tidal wave. I’m in its shadow now, in that half-second space before it crashes down, knowing nothing can stop it.
He’s moving faster now too, almost jerking, his words choppy.
“The only one,” he says, but it sounds a little meaner. “The only one fucking dirty enough to count. The only one wrong enough to make you feel bad.”
Tears spring my eyes, because of his fists in my hair. The words in my ears. The climax doesn’t care about the warning in the air. It falls and falls.
“The only one fucked up enough,” he mutters, and I’m not even sure he knows he’s saying it. His expression is hard as granite. “So you can stop being the good little girl.”