I’ve never thought of it like this before. Never craved it like this before.
Not with this frequency.
Never with this intensity.
Now I find myself bewitched, utterly possessed by the thought of guiding him into that forbidden place, of easing that thick, velvet-wrapped steel inside my most secret, tightest ring of flesh.
Slowly.
So very, very slowly.
I’m naked, oiling the length of him with long, languid strokes until he’s gleaming, slick and pulsing with need. You lie before me, as bare as I am, watching with dark, impatient hunger from the bed.
I move behind you, press your shoulders down until your cheek rests against the pillow, your knees and palms braced wide on the firm hotel mattress. Your hips tilt upward, offering yourself to me in the most exquisite surrender. Those firm, sculpted curves rise like an altar, commanding my worship.
The flushed, oiled crown of you presses gently against my crinkled, terra-cotta entrance. I feel you tremble beneath me, feel the tiniest catch of breath in your throat.
It’s all the permission I need.
One hand steadying your hip, the other guiding your rigid length, I ease you forward. You push back instinctively, blooming open for me. I watch, spellbound, as your swollen tip stretches me, claims me, disappears into that dark, clutching heat. My body quivers around you like a low current of electricity is singing through every nerve. Easy… easy… With a restraint I barely recognise in myself, I draw you in millimetre by millimetre until something inside me yields, surrenders, and your crown slips fully past that fierce ring of muscle, the shaft now locked in my velvet grip.
“Oh God,” you groan, the sound raw, edged with pain yet laced with unmistakable hunger. “Oh God… oh God…”
Words fail me. I can only feel, the impossible tightness, the scorching pressure, the illicit thrill of taking you where no one else is allowed. My soul shudders with the deliciously wicked knowledge that this is forbidden. Taboo. Divine.
I move so slowly it’s torture, barely rocking, letting that silken friction drag along every sensitive inch on the withdrawal until your ridge is caught again by my fluttering entrance. Each gentle thrust claims a fraction more territory until half your length is buried in the molten darkness of my body and you’re gasping, moaning like a man possessed. I can’t tell if it’s agony or ecstasy ripping those sounds from you. Perhaps both. Perhaps the kind of pain that births the purest pleasure.
The thought sets me ablaze.
“How deep do you want me?” I whisper, voice husky, civilisation peeling away with every breath.
A growl is all you can manage. I feel the beast rising in you, the need to surge, to plunder, to lose yourself completely. Your pulse throbs inside me, perfectly synced to the thunder of your heart. I want to let you. I want to feel you snap, seize my hips in both hands and drive every last inch into me until your body slams against mine and I’m impaled, owned, ruined in the sweetest way.
I have never been this aware of my body.
I have never felt this powerful.
And yet I hold on, leash the storm inside us both, fingers digging into your hips to keep the rhythm languid, punishing, exquisite.
I lean close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “How deep, darling? Tell me.”
You’re lost for a moment, drowning in sensation. Then, in a voice like smoke and sin:
“All of you.”
My breath catches. “Say it again.”
“All of you,” you rasp. “I need everything.”
So I give it to you, slow, relentless inches until there is nothing left, until you are buried to the hilt inside my forbidden heat and my own long, trembling moan joins yours. Until we are one endless exhale of dark pleasure.
“Take me,” you breathe, and I finally let the leash slip.
I move with purpose now, hands gripping your waist, nails raking down the beautiful arch of your back, scoring the taut flesh of your ass. You cry out, hips jerking back to meet every thrust.
I remember you telling me once, voice low and wicked over the phone, that your body can grow numb from hours of ordinary fucking, but never here, never like this. “No matter how long,” you’d whispered, “it always feels like the very first thrust.”
Sweat beads along your spine, pools at its base. I want to taste it, want to drag my tongue through that salt and sin, but I’m too deeply joined to you. All I can do is move, back and forth, back and forth, claiming you, marking you, loving you in the darkest way I know how.
One hand slides beneath you, over the hard plane of your abdomen, lower, lower. How long did I spend earlier with my mouth on you, worshipping that proud, straining length, teasing the slick crown while a slick finger opened you for me? Hours, perhaps. The sweetest foreplay of my life.
My fingers find the heavy, drawn-up weight of you, circle, stroke, deny direct touch until you’re shaking. When I finally close my hand around your hardness, you buck wildly, a broken sound tearing from your throat.
“Yes, fuck, yes—”
Your own hand covers mine, urgent, showing me exactly how you need it as your hips roll back onto me. Then your fingers slide lower, and I feel you push two inside yourself, the thin wall between us letting me feel every desperate stroke.
It’s too much. The climax coils low and vicious in my belly. I’m not going to last. But I know you want to feel it, want to feel me lose control inside you. You’ve begged for it in a hundred late-night messages: I want to feel you come in my ass. I want it to burn.
Your voice climbs, fractured and beautiful. “I’m—fuck—I’m coming, don’t stop—”
I couldn’t stop if the world ended. My hand flies over your length, milking you, as I drive deep again and again. Your body locks, that tight ring rippling around me in fierce, milking spasms, and it drags me over the edge with you. Pleasure explodes white-hot behind my eyes as I come undone, pulsing, flooding you, marking the very centre of your darkness with everything I am.
You collapse forward. I follow, still buried inside you, our bodies trembling in the aftermath. My breath saws in and out against your sweat-slick shoulder. Slowly, so slowly, I feel myself soften and slip free, but already my mind is spinning wicked future scenes, remembering how you once confessed that when you ride a lover like this, grinding down, chasing your own pleasure, the orgasms are so violent they nearly send you into the dark.
Oh God.
