WE SPENT two nights at the Log-Cabin-On-Steroids with his family. I can’t believe he doesn’t spend more time with them. I can’t believe how much I laughed, given the dull spasming of my lower stomach all but kicking me in the teeth to remind me every second of every hour that I’m no longer pregnant.
Bronson is a complete mystery to me. On the surface, he’s tall and muscular, with tattoos everywhere, but his actions are both goofy and charming. Then Shoshanna says something or does something and he’s staring at her. Watching. There is this darkness, this danger, and it’s right there below his charming disguise. It is sweltering intensity. Like he’d jump from a cliff, hit all the rocks on the way down if he thought it would make her smile. So, I think, if the Butcher brothers were desserts, Bronson would be Rocky Road—crazy.
Crunchy and gooey.
Sweet and creamy.
Just an enigma of an experience.
It’s hard not to like them… all of them, actually. Usually there is that one person who eyes you, who gets jealous—a girl mostly, but that didn’t happen. Even the big guy who barely smiles, Max, is hard not to like.
Max would be a toasted marshmallow.
He looks like he could blacken anyone who gets close, like he’s dark and hard all over, but then, his wife or daughter catches his eye and he’s smiling because he doesn’t rule his lips when they are around.
I saw it happen many times.
Xander… he’d be a Ferrero Rocher. A kind guy in a rough world. Covered in a hard layer, dented with bruises, maybe a self-inflicted construct to disguise and protect the softness of his heart.
I don’t know what dessert Clay is. I think he’s a cheeseboard… formal and neat with those tiny dried berries that were once soft and juicy but are now hard and tight.
Sadly, it was apparent he is the outsider, or maybe they have put him on a platform, and he remains there. Always. Like he won’t allow himself to be just… Clay Butcher.
It is the first day back at the mansion, and Clay is at work, and I’m sitting cross-legged on his bed staring at the onesie with the dreamcatcher on it. I could give it to baby Stone, but I think he’s already outgrown it.
It hurts to think about my first and only present to my son being neatly folded, meticulously placed in a seal-lock bag, stored away somewhere safe, sentimental, and… forgotten.
I can’t bear it.
You’ll never be anything.
You’ll never be anything other than a heartbeat.
Sighing, I recall Cassidy mentioned her little girl, Kelly, has recently started having nightmares. It’s a developmental thing, apparently. I wouldn’t know, but I might have known soon, might have had some insight one day. Right now, though, all I have is my mum’s remedy… a dreamcatcher.
I trace the stitching with my finger, deciding what to do. I will cut the image from the onesie and give it to Kelly the next time I see her. She could put it in her pillowcase or clutch it like a blanket when she tries to sleep. She could throw it in the bin, but at least for a second, when I give it to her, it would have been something.
Unlike him.
Needing a distraction, I slide from the room, immediately rendered to a standstill by Jasmine, who is darting away from the door, shying away at the sight of me. I twist to see Henchman Jeeves standing watch a few doors down, his feet a shoulder-width apart, his head following the blur of white and black Jasmine creates when she bounces past him.
He sighs, a message rolling down his breath.
“Jasmine?” I call after her, trailing her down the hall in her wake, but she keeps turning corners. “Jasmine! Please stop.”
Then she abruptly halts, and I bump right into her. “You’re not the pumpkin!” she spits out, a gust of meaning leaving her but no further context. I step back from her. It takes a few moments to register her words. “You’re not a pumpkin. He is going to keep you. You’re his … I don’t know. But you’re not my friend. You’re my boss.”
I shrink back. Her words tighten my throat. “I am your friend… I… I want to be your friend.”
“But you’re not, Fawn. I will clean your room. And pack your clothes, and I’ll help you dress when he takes you out, and I’ll pro—’
“Well, quit then!” I throw my arms in the air, hating the fort she is erecting because I was going to demolish mine for her and like hell am I going to just let her suddenly build one. “You only did this to fill your time, right? You were bored. Just quit and be my friend instead.”
“I lied,” she murmurs, shame and regret set ablaze by her jealousy. “I lied to you. I didn’t think you would be around long enough to know that I did… My parents aren’t travelling. I’ve never even left the country.”
“What?”
“I’m not rich!” she blurts out. “I’ve never met the prime minister. I don’t have a boyfriend. My dad works for Mr Butcher. This is the family business. Que, my dad, he worked for Jimmy Storm for thirty years, and now he is Mr Butcher’s personal assistant.”
My forehead tightens. “Why would you lie about that?”
“Because you were like me,” she says. “And I just wanted to impress you or just, like, be someone different.”
Confused, I stare at the ground as her words seep into me, but they soon ignite below my skin, annoyance taking hold. “But I wasn’t like you, though, Jasmine.” I fix my eyes on her again. “I didn’t have a father or a family business to fall into or a place to sleep. I didn’t get to eat cake and have food spread across the kitchen to feast on all hours of the day… Don’t you get it? Your life was—is impressive to me, just the way it is. Do you know what I have been through? What my life has been like until this house and Clay. Hell. It has sucked arse! You lied to me about your life, when all the while I would have sold my soul for it. And I wanted a friend. I needed a friend… I lost the baby, Jasmine. Did you know? Did you know and still not bother to come see me?” Her face falls, and I shake my head as disdain hurtles through me. “I have to go.” I dart off down the hall, only hoping my feet will find their own way to the kitchen, where I can convince Maggie to let me watch her cook.
WORKING THE FONDANT, I use what Maggie calls ‘the taffy method,’ drawing it out and kneading it back in, conditioning it. It goes from a crumbly mess to smooth and stretchy and usable. I smile, liking the control I have over it, the pastel red colouring, the sweet scent.
It reminds me of his cigars.
Wiping some powdered sugar from my forehead, a few ribbons of blonde hair stick out from under my hairnet, getting in the way. I channel my mind into the perfect fondant. Grabbing the rolling pin, I flatten it to about 300 millimetres.
“Constantly move it in the sugar, sugar, so it doesn’t stick.” Maggie chuckles from beside me, her black hair pinned inside her hairnet, her thin but strong arms working on the fondant for the real cake. Not the one I’m playing with. This is the first thing I’ve ever baked, and it doesn’t mean I am going to be a spectacular wife or mother one day, but it means I have a chance at both.
Either way, I’m occupying my mind by grabbing opportunity by the balls, as Clay so eloquently said. And Maggie doesn’t bid my mind much time to wander. Not to the fact Jasmine lied to me or my empty womb or even to feel the double-tap of my heart every time I imagine his long fingers inside me.
I simply don’t have time for those thoughts.
Maggie’s shoulder touches mine. “Good, Fawn. Now lift it using the rolling pin. Just like you practised. And lay it over the cake like a skirt.”
The sound of a perfectly confident rap vibrates within my ear, causing my chin to jut to the side in search of the owner of those powerful footsteps. My heart rattles in my chest as he strolls through the kitchen with his eyes level and neutral, focused on the fridge and the beer he is now pulling from inside the door. He twists the top and turns towards me, leaning on the fridge door. I clutch the rolling pin handles while his eyes measure me from the hairnet to the apron to the pink shoes covered in white sugar dust.
“How is Jill from marketing?” I ask breathily, and he pushes off from the fridge and strolls towards me. The rolling pin drops from my hand so I can twist and follow his movements.
I press my lower back to the bench-top, and he stops in front of me, leaning in to grip the stainless steel either side of my waist, barring me in with the formidable wall of muscles commanding his body.
“Who is Jill from marketing?” he asks.
I peer up to meet his eyes. “The girl you have lunch with when you’re in the City Building.’
Smooth.
I clear my throat under his smirk. “Um, I made this cake. And we made cupcakes, too. Pink for the girls and blue for the guys, even though I think they should be allowed any colour they want, purple, black, red.” I swallow my nerves. “Want one?”
Maggie makes a small sound of amusement, saying, ‘Oh, you’ll never get him to eat something sugary like that.’
He leans in, nestling his nose between my hair and neck, and inhales. I turn my face, gravitating towards his warmth. “I seem to be rather addicted to sweet things these days. You smell like dessert, little deer.”
“It’s the cakes, Sir.” My legs buckle as my words spill out with a breathy exhale.
He growls by my ear, the gravelly tempo resonating within my core. His sweet, smoky exhale cascades over the side of my face. “No, sweet girl, it’s not.”
I reach for a cupcake and slide up onto the counter, putting a tiny bit more distance between his encroaching tightly packed body and my small, shy one before his rumbling cadence forces me to spread my legs for him right here in the kitchen. “Try one.” I hold it out. An object to separate us while Maggie is mere metres away, while he’s making me feel as if I need him buried inside me just to gain a sense of… comfort. Any other state isn’t enough. “I made this one. This one right here.”
A whisper of a grin falls to a corner of his lips. “This specific one? How do you know?”
I laugh at him, and his grin grows. “‘Cause it has the little channel on the side where I tried to push the batter in with my finger.”
He watches me through his lashes as I squirm. Rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, he grips either side of my body again, the veins and definition in his forearms provoking a strained breath to escape me. It’s loud; that breath. And he looks at my lips as though he sees it still vibrating from them.
Kudos, whoever made you.
Slowly, he leans down, his lips arrowed towards mine. But then grins, twisting to wrap his lips around the cupcake in my hand, his blue eyes never leaving mine. They narrow on my sheepish face as he circles his tongue inside his mouth, and it is seriously indecent.
My temperature spikes.
“Shit,” I mutter before clearing my throat. “Is it… is it good, Sir?”
He hums around the bite, the sound familiar to the way he hums when he is touching me, fucking me, looking at me. I’m delicious, and so is my cupcake. “It is.”
Without tearing my gaze from his searing blue irises, I realise Maggie’s quick exit from kitchen, muttering something about “tapioca.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I place the crumbling half-eaten cupcake on the counter.
Two of his long fingers stroke the little valley where I have my thighs pressed together. “Open for me.”
As I open my legs, he moves his hips between them, pressing his hard body to mine and squeezing my breath from me. Placing both palms flat over the black shirt, casing his tight, trim chest, I skim down the muscles pulsing beneath the lush fabric. He dips until his mouth travels down the side of my face, his lips coasting to my ear, a hum reverberating from him as he licks the shell.
I moan, dizzy from his attention. Dragging my fingers over the ribbed muscles on his torso, I realise I can’t stop touching him, and he won’t stop mauling my neck and ear even though we are in plain sight to anyone who enters. I don’t know why that fact rises to my attention. I presume what we have is private… or inappropriate.
“Are you my good girl?”
“Yes, Clay.” Getting lost in the way his lips roam around my throat, I release a long whimper. I want him. I can feel the heat spread all over my body like an acute fever. “You’re like a virus.”
I feel his smile slide wide at my throat, and there is this surreal moment where I’m not sure that this isn’t a dream. Like, am I really being kissed by the most powerful man in the District? In his kitchen?
His lips move on my skin as he says, “A virus?”
Fucking full of smooth comments today. A blush warms every inch of my being. “Yes, a dangerous one.’
Just as his tongue flicks out to taste my throat, his lips freeze. Gradually, the clip-clop of heels grows in volume. He leans back, and his eyes are cutting blue rings of unbridled lust and heat. He drags his thumb along his lower lip in a menacing gesture that leaves me panting at the impure message.
In my peripherals, I see a blonde woman walk in and stop when she sees us. Quickly on her heels, a middle-aged man appears, his expression bordering on panic. “Boss, your—’
“I don’t need a forewarning, Que.” She stops on the other side of the large marble island bench, sighing as if her life is a perpetual disappointment. She sets her purse down. “Well, who do we have here?”
For a moment, Clay doesn’t tear his eyes from mine, then finally twists, clasping his hands in front. I close my thighs. “My business,” he answers smoothly. “We discussed you would call ahead. I’m a busy man.”
She waves in my direction. “Yes, well, it appears you are very busy—’
“Mother!” His voice is curt and unyielding, carrying across to her with absolute warning.
I wince… And fuck me, she’s way too young to be his mother. Aunty, maybe? But at least now I know who to congratulate for making him… kudos…you? I should ask for her name or introduce—
Clay cuts into my thoughts as he says, “You forget yourself. You will call ahead next time.”
I suck a breath in and divert my gaze to the powdered sugar on my thighs, relenting that now is not a get-to-know-the-maker-of-my-man moment. Electricity crackles around us, almost audibly, as the silence lingers longer than comfortable.
She sighs softly. “I’m sorry, darling. I was in the area—’
“And you’re drunk.” He nods at the fridge. Then at the man dressed in all black. Without a word, Que grabs a shiny blue bottle of water and sets it down in front of Clay’s mother.
Her red lips purse, silent, but her eyes flash with displeasure. “Oh, Clay.” She slides onto a stool. “I am not drunk. I had a few wines with lunch.”
“And you’re avoiding the house because everyone is there. Am I right? You were not in the area at all.” He exhales roughly, taking a step towards her. “I want to put an end to this feud. You will try harder or there will be consequences. Now—’ He holds his hand out for me to take and I slide from the countertop with his assistance. “You should stay here until you sober up. Go outside and sit by the pool. I will have Que bring you anything you please. Then go home and try to get to know Cassidy, Shoshanna, and your grandchildren. They are not going anywhere. You best get used to it.”
Holding his arm outstretched in the direction of the staircase, he signals for me to walk ahead of him, so I do, but I can feel his hot, dominant energy blanketing my spine.
What the fuck was that?
I chance a look at her as he steers me away. Meeting her sharp narrowed gaze immediately, I jerk back to face forward. It seems she is as interested in me as I am in her. If the prickles on my spine are anything to go by, she is still watching me leave. My mouth moves with the greeting I wish had been uttered. “Hello, I’m Fawn. It is nice to meet you.” A normal introduction to the mother of the man who was pressed between my thighs on her arrival.
He has a practised smile for everyone but not for her. At least, not today. Instead, I watched him belittle her in front of a stranger—me.
Does he have issues with his mother? She drinks, it seems. There are worst things in life than that, and given his business, I find it peculiar that it’s such an issue.
We enter his bedroom, the room just light enough to see but dim enough to shift the mood, darken it.
He closes the door behind us. I still, facing the bed, but feel him moving around behind me. I want to ask about his mother. Mine wasn’t great either. I stare at the dreamcatcher hanging from the bedpost and then at the onesie folded on the side table. “You don’t get along with your mother?”
I hear a lighter flick open, a spark, and the sound of crackling smoke being inhaled. Turning to face him, my breath catches. He is cloaked in darkness, sitting on the sofa. Tie loose. Suit still pristine. He grits a cigar between his teeth and inhales and exhales without even holding it in his hand. The cherry burns like a flaming heart, blazing every time he sucks and darkening as he exhales.
Scoring a trail across my body, his eyes make his intentions perfectly clear.
My knees shake under his heated gaze. “Clay?”
He pulls the cigar from his lips, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes are watchful. “Are you still bleeding? Have you been in any pain today?”
I shake my head. “Light bleeding. No pain.”
A ghost of a grin touches his serious lips. “Take off your clothes, little deer. I have a gift for you.”
My hand finds the ends of my hair. Soothingly, I twirl a blonde strand around my finger. “What kind of gift?”
“Take off your clothes.”
Between the walk from the kitchen to his bedroom, his mien has flipped from playful and passionate to dark and intimidating. I like them both, but I can’t help but think about how his mother’s presence has affected him.
He leans back expectantly, laying one of his powerful arms over the back of the chair, the other holding the cigar to his lips as he draws in the sweet scented smoke. His eyes, God, they are so narrow, so arrowed on me, it’s a surprise they don’t feel like knives cutting deep, getting beneath my flesh.
With trembling hands, I remove my clothes, and then turn to lay them over the bed. With my back to him, I take a deep breath, willing my resolve to stay strong.
I stride over to him, completely bare, the light breeze from the air-conditioning dusting my hair around my face. My nipples pebble and ache.
His eyes are blazing blue rings that glare at me as I stop in front of him, my breasts in line with his penetrating gaze.
I run my fingers up the back of his head, through his dark-brown hair, and lean in until my nipple brushes his lip. He opens his mouth, and I slide my nipple through the slant, but he doesn’t suck it or lick. “What do you want me to do, Sir?”
He talks around my nipple, his mouth defiant in giving me the attention I need—I’m desperate for. “Lay over my lap.”
“Can I see my present before I lay down?”
“No. You can see it after.”
“After.” The word falls through a heavy exhale. It wasn’t a question. My lips just found the word both terrifying and exciting, and my ears wanted to hear it again.
He places a cushion on the other side of his lap. His blue gaze tracks me as I slide onto the couch, pressing my knees beside his left thigh. He widens his legs so when I lay down, my pelvis is on his thigh, my arse raised, my torso supported by his hard quads, and my forearms and head are resting on the cushion he positioned earlier.
His black suit pants are smooth, but at my navel his hard cock bruises the soft, supple flesh. I’m so aroused by being bent over him as he casually smokes his cigar. My heart is a steady little pulse in my neck. My pussy throbs. My hips shamelessly circle on his thigh.
I press against him with more force. Rub. Moan when I feel his defined thigh at my core. The intensity sends shivers along my spine, activating my skin, prickling the small light hairs all over my body.
“Are you humping me, sweet girl?” he says, the sound of his inhale and exhale the only way I can tell he’s still smoking his cigar. Then a cloud of sweet vapour tumbles down my face.
I moan my response, stilling my hips but feeling as though they are a rubber band wanting to spiral free. I press my thighs together to fend off the pull, the tug of desire.
“Don’t stop,” he commands, his voice deep, husky. “Keep rubbing your pussy on my thigh. Can you make yourself come? Let me see you try.’
I do as I’m told. Sinking my fingers into the cushion below my head and dragging my body along his thigh. I spread my legs and grind against him. It’s dark enough that I don’t feel much shame, a dim hue to slightly veil my wanton motions. But it is light enough that I know he can see everything, know he’ll like it. The pressure is light, not centralised, not enough, but I’m dripping all over his pants with need.
He sucks on his cigar.
I grind on his thigh.
When he leans forward slightly, I twist to see him blunt out his cigar in the ashtray on the table and retrieve a wooden box about the size of a book. Is that my present?
He places it on the curve of my back. “Now. Close your eyes. I didn’t want to blindfold you. I am very fond of your eyes, of your lashes, but don’t defy me. This is about trust. Do you trust me with your body?”
‘Yes.’ I close my eyes, waiting. Acutely, I listen to the box open, to the contents being moved. I hold my breath until his fingers, wet and authoritarian, slip through the valley of my arse cheeks. His fingers slide around as if in a thick fluid… wait. I’m not holding my breath anymore. I start to pant. The thick pad of his finger presses to the hole between my cheeks before massaging the tight rim of muscles. A groan from deep inside me rolls up my throat.
“God. Sir. Please.”
When he pushes the tip of his finger through the taut muscles, I claw at the cushion, arching my back as a raspy sound leaves me. I grind on him harder.
“This will become your favourite time of day,” he states. Oh. My. God. Is that his voice? It’s thicker, deeper, with a trace of an accent. The same timbre from the night he first took my body for himself, whispering to me in another language. He continues, and I swear his voice alone could make me come. “Every night, when I get home, I will lay this pretty body over my lap, and we will stretch your tight hole until you can take me the way I like. Hard. Deep. You’ll soon come from just the feel of my finger on your pretty hole. It’ll be visceral.’
I shudder over his thighs; emotions war inside me. I’m not afraid. I love him. I love what he does to my body… but I’m intimidated and nervous, and my butterflies are not at flight but instead trembling.
While he explores my little hole, sinking deeper, savouring the motions, delivering me pleasure in slow movements, I twist internally with ecstasy.
God, it feels so indecent in all the best ways. I never liked decency anyway. I never fit in with decent people. Right now, I want him to pop his finger out only to sink it back in. And out. And in.
“Please,” I hear myself beg while my knuckles go numb, losing sensation from the killer hold I have on the cushion.
“Deep breaths, little deer.” Something cold touches my sensitive rosette, and I squeeze my eyelids together, wrestling with the innate response to widen them.
I breathe through the pressure as he stretches my quivering rim, and then… I’m full. There is no movement, and that makes it somehow worse. And better. God, I don’t know. The pressure, lingering pleasure, unnatural and erotic sensation, is a constant.
Still.
Perpetual.
He hums his approval, lifting his hips, his cock bashing my navel from beneath his pants. “Fuck. This looks so pretty inside you.’ He removes his hands from my body. ‘Climb off me and have a look in the mirror, sweet girl. You’ll like it.”
On unsteady limbs, I crawl backwards from his lap. He assists me, stands with me, and leads me over to the mirror. I can feel it moving inside me, and I’m desperate to pull it out, to allow the muscles tautly hugging it to shrink back—relax.
I stop in front of the silver panel and stare at the naked girl with blonde hair hanging far too long and nipples standing like hard peaks.
Clay Butcher stands behind me so I can see his towering physique, a wall of muscles inside a black suit—his armour. He grasps my shoulders, encouraging me to turn.
I do.
Then I peer over my shoulder to see a shiny white crystal poking out from between my cheeks. It’s beautiful, and I look beautiful wearing it.
I gaze up from the sparkling crystal to his heated gaze. My heart shudders. He is staring at the little gem, and I’m gazing at him.
“I need you to fuck me,” I whisper.
His scorching gaze rises to my face. “Say please.”
“Please, Sir.”
“Crawl around the bed while I take my suit off. Stay on your hands and knees,” he says darkly.
Fucking hell. The mattress dips as I climb onto it. Winces contort into moans and flip back again as the plug inside me shuffles as I do. Now I understand why he wants me to move. I flutter my eyes through the contradictory sensations. The sound of his clothes coming off is all I try to focus on as I slide around the mattress, pacing the square fabric on all-fours like a kitten trying to find the softest spot to curl up on. My desire drips down my thighs. The walls inside me work around nothing, and I’m not ashamed of that sensation anymore. Unable to be embarrassed by anything while the plug somehow sends secondary tingles to my clit. I moan, halt, having to stop as the stimulation becomes too much. I close my eyes and arch my back, thrusting my arse into the air, angling my pelvis to ebb the pulsing around the plug.
I open my eyes when the room falls quiet. He stands at the end of the bed, his cock beating forcefully, pre-cum leaking already from the bobbing head. “I am so proud of how well your body has responded to my gift. Come here, my little deer. Bring me your pussy and I’ll make it all better.”
Scurrying over to him, I press my backside to his cock, and a deep growl leaves him. “Would you like that punishment now? For grabbing my wrist. Would you like to feel my gift move inside you while I punish this”—his big, warm palm strokes my bare arse cheek— “flawless skin.”
I moan at his words. “Can I please have your cock?”
“Such a sweet question.”
I’m already sweltering at the edges of my composure when he caresses my pussy with two fingers, travelling up and down the slick channel. Fuck. Fuck.
He hums. “Is there any pain? Any at all? You need to be honest with me. I’ll still give you attention if you are in pain.”
“No. Please. Please, I need you inside me.”
A rumble of warning soars through the air. “Tell me to go slow, beg me to be gentle with your pretty pussy, or I’ll take you the way I want, and it won’t be either of those things.”
Then a zap of pain fizzles through my body when he slaps my arse cheek, the crystal jerking within me, hitting the clinging walls, and resonating in the little buzzing knot above my trembling lips. “Tell me to go slow, Fawn.”
He spanks me again.
Whimpering sounds leave me as my orgasm trickles through, teasingly, from that attention. My arse locks around the plug. My hips rock back into the fingers denying me the hard penetration I desperately desire.
I rub my pussy on his cock, pleadingly, as I mewl, arch, and beg with my bowing spine. Take me. I rub the length of him with my swollen lips, working towards that sensation. “Please, Sir. I don’t want you restrained.”
It’s true. I want him real. Raw. Carnal. Whatever he needs to do to my body, I volunteer. I want my body to be the place he finds solace, the vessel that gives him pleasure, the heart he wants beating frantically alongside his.
“I’m going to ride this little body into my mattress. Are you ready for me?” Then his big warm hand spans my hip and part of my arse, and his cock slams into me, taking me from empty and wanton to stuffed and stretched before I can breathe. “Oh, fuck. Fawn.”
I burst into tears, overwhelmed but not at all sad. Throaty moans fall from my open mouth as he starts to fuck me. My mellow orgasm flares into a wild, unruly current.
He holds me still with one hand so I can take his hard drives; the other circles the small crystal while his pelvis hammers me hard from behind, impaling me repeatedly, at a brutal pace that drags yelps from my lips with each punch.
My orgasm doesn’t stop.
One rolls into another. Never ending. My forehead hits the mattress. He holds my arse up for him to take. My body rackets. The climax of sensation shifts from my pulsing rosette to my battered pussy and back again until all the stretched, supple flesh detonates with further pleasure.
And he fucks me for so long. So long. My body is a numb mass. My legs trembling from fatigue; I’m unable to brace my hips as he takes what he wants from between them.
I moan into the mattress while he fingers the crystal and fucks me thoroughly. He twists the plug. Then finally presses down on the muscles beside the glittering gem, releasing it from the suction of my body. At the sweet agony of my hole being emptied, embarrassment drives through me, riding the explosion of another orgasm. This one, though, I can’t handle. Can’t take anymore. I’m useless against the onslaught, becoming completely limp, my backside held up by his hands.
“Fawn.” He grunts, and I know he’s wracked with his own impending high. With each smack of skin to skin, a growl of pure animal intent rumbles through him, and he thrust two more times, flooding my pussy with his cum.
He pants behind me.
The moment coasts by.
His strong arms band around me, hauling me upright, pressing my back to his sweat-slicked chest. I flop against him, the back of my head hitting his chest. He holds me on my knees with protective dominance as his hand travels down my stomach to where he enters me. He touches either side of his cock as he withdraws, cum slipping out, dripping over his fingers, and down my inner thighs. As his laboured breaths fan my hair, he smears his cum across my pussy and up my stomach with his fingers. I’m weak all over.
Claimed.
Marked.
Owned.
His forever—he’s going to keep me.
His breaths slow, returning to a steady pace. Then he collects me into his arms. Tucking me in bed, he soon slides in behind me on the mattress, locks my back to his chest, and rests his head above my crown.
I hum in the clutches of my fatigue, but I hear his heavy exhale. My hair wisps around, tickling my skin. “Tell me those tears were from pleasure, sweet girl.”
I barely stifle a sleepy laugh; my ballooning heart loves the hints of concern he tries to smother. “I orgasm best under a level of duress, Sir.”
He chuckles, deeply, and it is the best damn soundtrack to accompany the humming of my body. It’s emotional intimacy. It’s being comfortable. “You impress me, little deer.’
I beam, even though my smile goes unseen. He has no idea how much that means to me.
