He slowed down, gliding into her in one long, torturously delicious thrust. Inch by inch, she felt his cock filling her all the way. Her walls clenched around him, hot and tight. She tried to wriggle against him but he shook his head, lowering his hand to her neck.
“No. Not yet,” he told her. “Tell me you can wait.”
“I can try.”
“Tell me you can do it.” His voice was rougher this time. There was no room for trying. There was only doing.
“I can.”
Another breath released, another shudder as he moved out, nearly leaving her pussy, where she desperately wanted him.
She moaned and reached her hand behind her, trying to gain some sort of control, to hold onto him. His hip. His leg. Anything. But he grasped her hand, clutching it tight as he drove into her yet again. Deeply, so deeply that she saw the edge of her climax coming into view. There. Close. So fucking close. If only he’d let her have it.
“Hold back,” he told her, as he fucked her harder, gripping her hand, as if the force with which he held her would keep her desperate orgasm at bay. “Don’t come yet.”
She couldn’t speak, could only whimper as she concentrated so fiercely on denying the quivering in her core, the molten heat coursing through her veins from the absolutely overwhelming way he took her. From the way he fucked her into such a state of wildness. “Please,” she begged as he took his hand from her throat and moved his fingers up the back of her neck, threading them through her hair.
Grabbing her hair. Pulling it. Keeping her immobile.
He thrust into her, sending shock waves of pleasure from her center all the way through her body.
“Please what?”
“Please let me come.”
He lowered his mouth to her shoulder, kissing her so hard he’d leave marks. When he let go, he whispered, “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Give yourself to me,” he said and she knew what he wanted. All of her body. All of her pleasure. Nothing for her to do but be consumed by him. He wanted to give her everything, and to take nothing from her as he fucked her relentlessly.
She let her head fall forward, her shoulders go slack. She held onto the railing, but the rest was up to him. He dropped his hands to her hips, gripping her tightly, and so fucking possessively that if he didn’t let her come right now she was sure she would die from wanting to climax.
“Don’t hold back anymore,” he commanded, and his tone made it clear—he owned this orgasm. He controlled her body. He was driving this train and she was not only along for the ride. She was the ride.
“Oh, God,” she shouted.
“Tell me you’re coming,” he growled. “Say it.”
She shuddered as the world around her shattered. “I’m coming, Jack. I’m coming now,” she cried out, as her orgasm crashed through her body like a goddamn force of nature. It was better, stronger, more powerful than the last one.
“Yes, you are,” he said, his voice rough and dirty as he fucked her hard and ferociously, giving her everything as he took her. His fingers dug into her flesh, gripping her, driving into her with a fierceness that felt like ownership as he came inside her with a loud, deep groan. As he began to slow his pace, he bent over her back, his chest on her, one hand gently looping around her belly, sensing she needed him to keep her from falling. He held her close as he slowed to a leisurely pace, rocking inside her, like a wave rolling back out to sea.
But even as her orgasm ebbed, she was marked. By his teeth, by his fingers, by his beautiful cock still deep and hard inside her.
By his voice.
And by his control.
He was right about everything. He wanted her badly. He’d shown her how much.
“Michelle,” he whispered, in a voice that was both savage and tender. And she understood then completely what he’d done. He hadn’t merely won her over. He’d claimed her as his own.
CHAPTER SIX
Addictive
When she hung up the phone after taking a quick call from her brother, Jack pulled the beautiful woman who’d spent Friday and Saturday night with him back onto the couch.
“Why is ‘Ode to Joy’ your ringtone?” he asked, as he tugged her against him. She’d come home with him on Friday, but then left after midnight. She’d returned on Saturday, but left late that night too. Maybe it was self-protection; maybe his mattress wasn’t her favorite. But he hoped to convince her soon enough to stay the night. He liked having access to her. Being near her eased the ache of guilt that surrounded him. Hell, it did more than ease it. It erased it. It blotted it out. With Michelle, he felt strangely free of that clawing sense of self-condemnation that surrounded him like a bad cologne. The scent of regret.
“Because it’s a happy piece of music,” she answered as he ran his fingertips along her waist. It was Sunday evening now, and he planned to have her one more time before she left. But for now, he wanted to talk.
“So’s Jack Johnson. But he’s not your ringtone,” he countered.
“Are you saying this cigar isn’t just a cigar?”
He laughed. “Shrink humor?”
“Of course.”
“And yes, what I’m saying is most people don’t pick something like Beethoven’s Ninth unless it means something to them. I want to know what it means to you,” he said, running his hand along the fabric of her skirt as it fell on her hip. She’d worn nothing but skirts whenever he’d seen her, and he was ready to build an altar to the absence of those pesky wardrobe items like pants and jeans. Never had he been more grateful to be with a woman in a skirt.