Page 96 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

He thrusts upward, thick and heavy, pushing into me at an angle that makes my head slam back against the cabinet.

The stretch is brutal and perfect, my body clutching him greedily as my cry echoes off the kitchen walls.

“God,” I gasp, toes curling as he bottoms out, the new angle driving him deeper than before, pressing into a place that makes stars burst across my vision. “Cruz?—”

His hands are braced behind my knees, holding me wide open, his gaze locked on where we’re joined. “Fuck, look at that,” he rasps, hips working slow, deep, deliberate. “Look how you take me. Like you’re begging to be filled.”

The position has me helpless, pinned, unable to move.

All I can do is arch against the cabinet as he pounds up into me, each thrust sharp, grinding, stretching me raw.

My breasts bounce with every stroke, and his gaze flicks up to them, hungry.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, voice low but rough.

My hand shakes as it slips between us, fingers finding my clit.

The extra stimulation makes my back arch hard, my cunt fluttering around him.

He groans at the squeeze, his pace quickening, his cock sliding in and out with filthy wet sounds that fill the kitchen.

The window above the sink reflects it back.

I’m sprawled open on the counter, legs folded high, Cruz’s crouched and driving up into me with his broad shoulders straining, his face set in fierce concentration.

The sight makes me moan louder, my pussy clenching, my hand working my clit faster.

He notices.

He always notices.

“Yeah, that’s it, Marisa,” he growls, his voice ragged. “Play with yourself while I wreck you. I want you to come all over me again before I fill you.”

The words alone nearly undo me.

My hips buck, grinding against his thrusts, my nails digging into my thigh as I rub harder.

I’m babbling now, broken pleas and curses spilling out with every ragged breath.

Cruz leans forward suddenly, folding me tighter, his chest pressing to my legs as he braces me open even wider.

The new depth is devastating.

His cock pounds into me relentlessly, hitting that spot over and over until I scream, my whole body jerking with each brutal thrust.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his brow onto my skin. “So tight, so wet, squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”

“I don’t,” I sob, my nails raking down my stomach, my clit throbbing under my frantic touch. “Don’t stop—don’t stop?—”

He doesn’t.

He slams deeper, faster, his growls echoing against my moans.

The pressure builds sharp and unbearable, and then it crashes through me.

My orgasm rips me apart, my body convulsing and my cry splitting the air.

My pussy gushes around him, soaking his cock, and he groans, his thrusts ragged now, desperate. “Fuck—Marisa?—”