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“That other side, huh?” His grip tightens on my wrists. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.” I arch up against him, craving more contact. “I don’t want gentle.”
“Tough.” He nips at my collarbone. “Because that’s what you’re getting.”
“Brandon.”
“You’re overthinking again.” His hand on my leg traces up my side, a shiver running through me. “Let me do this my way.”
I want to argue, to demand he gives me what I want, but his touch blocks my brain.
He kisses me while slowly pressing forward, stretching me in a way his fingers could never prepare me for. It’s delicious, bordering on too much, but perfect all the same.
“Fuck. You feel amazing.” His muscles tremble with the effort of holding back. “You okay?”
I shift, pushing into the friction, and the sound we make is nothing short of desperate.
“Move,” I command.
He does, pushing in and out with agonizing slowness, reaching deeper each time. “Even now, you’re trying to control everything.”
My retort dies as he does a sharp thrust, drawing another moan from my lips.
Slowly, incrementally, the pain starts to recede, replaced by a growing sense of fullness, of completion.
“More.” My hands strain against his grip, wanting to touch, to explore, but he keeps them pinned above my head.
“You’re not the one in control here.” And I love it. His mouth finds my neck, sucking and biting marks into my skin. “Trust me.”
My body relaxes, surrendering to his pace, his control. Trust. Such a simple word, yet it carries the weight of everything between us.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re doing so well.”
“It feels so good.” My body aches for release. “Please.”
“I love how you beg.”
There’s something intoxicating about giving in, about feeling weightless in the hands of someone else. And as much as I should hate it, I’m starving for it.
How did I survive without this until now?
“You.” Each word of his is followed by deep thrust. “Are. Mine.”
I cry out, my spine curving as pleasure takes over. He takes advantage, ducking his head to capture my oversensitive nipple between his teeth, almost sending me tumbling over.
“That’s it.” He releases my wrists and hooks an arm under my knee, lifting my legs higher.
The new angle lets him sink impossibly deeper, and I’m reduced to broken moans.
“No more running, cupcake.” He slows down. “Say it.”
“I—”
“Say it, or you’re not allowed to come.”
“No more running!”
“That’s my good girl.” His rhythm changes, still controlled but with an edge of roughness. “Show me what I’ve been missing all these years.”