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“So fucking responsive,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb along the slick heat between my thighs. “Every inch of you, mine to command, mine to ruin, mine to worship.” His voice is rough silk, layered with heat and control, and the way he looks at me—like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever had the right to claim—sends a rush of molten need spiraling through my core. “Say it,” he demands, his eyes locking onto mine, fierce and unyielding. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” I gasp, my voice breaking on the edge of a moan. “I belong to you.”
His groan is low, primal. “Damn straight.”
I nod, biting my lip, my breath catching as his hand trails lower. My legs tremble—not from fear, but anticipation—as his fingers graze the inside of my thigh with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass ignites a fresh surge of heat under my skin, the pads of his fingers coaxing soft shudders from deep within. He doesn’t rush—he studies me as he touches, savoring every reaction, every tremble, as if memorizing the exact path to undo me piece by piece.
“No panties this time,” he notes, pleased. “Learning quickly.”
I grin. “Figured you’d confiscate them again.”
His grin is wicked, intoxicating, lethal. “Damn right I would.”
Two fingers slip into me, slow and firm, curling just right to stroke that devastating spot deep inside. My back arches instinctively, a cry tearing from my throat as fire licks up my spine. I claw at the sheets; the pressure building fast, uncontrollable, as his fingers work with unerring precision. Each deliberate curl sends another bolt of pleasure spiraling through me until I’m trembling beneath the weight of it.
“Nick,” I gasp, but it’s more a plea than a protest.
He leans in, voice velvet and iron. “Feel how you open for me. How your body begs. You were made for this. For me.”
And when he adds a third finger, stretching me just enough to sting, I break again—louder this time, breathless and utterly undone.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
The praise undoes me.
He moves lower, mouth tracing the path his fingers took, until I feel his breath against the heat between my legs. Then his tongue—hot, skilled, relentless. My fingers clutch the sheets above my head as he devours me.
I shatter. Hard. My cry is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses his way back up my body, his fingers still buried deep inside me, working me through every tremor.
“More,” I beg.
He doesn't answer. He just flips me over, dragging my hips up until I’m on my knees, face pressed to the pillows. His hand comes down, a firm smack to my ass, followed by a soothing stroke.
“You don’t get to come again unless I say.”
I whimper. “Yes, Sir.”
He groans behind me, low and guttural, as the rasp of his zipper cuts through the quiet like a warning. The rustle of fabric follows—a whisper of anticipation—and then I feel the blunt, heated press of him against me. His hand slides along my spine, not gentle, but claiming, holding me in place as he takes a moment to savor it.
“Stay still,” he commands, the growl in his voice sending a shiver down my back. “I want to feel you fall apart around me.”
The anticipation coils tighter, my pulse pounding in my ears, and when he finally thrusts into me—one long, unrelenting stroke—I cry out, the sound caught between pain and exquisite pleasure. He doesn’t give me time to adjust. Doesn’t need to. Because my body is already his, primed and open, desperate.
“Just like that,” he breathes, his fingers digging into my hips. “So goddamn perfect.”
He sets a pace that’s fierce and consuming, and I brace myself against the bed, the slick slide of our bodies filling the space between breathless moans and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. With every thrust, he pushes deeper, harder, as if trying to erase the distance that ever existed between us.
He leans over, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me tighter against him, and I feel his breath against my ear as he growls, “Mine.”
A moment later, he thrusts inside me, one long, deep stroke that makes me cry out.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “So tight. So wet. You were made for me. You were always mine.”
He sets a rhythm that’s hard and punishing, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip with bruising intensity. Every thrust pushes me closer to the edge, but I bite my lip, remembering his command.
He leans over me, voice dark against my ear.
“Come for me.”