Page 142 of The Coach

Enough to make me his.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say who’s fucking you.”

I whimper, shaking beneath him.

“You.”

“Louder.” His hand tightens just slightly, just enough to make my breath catch, his other hand holding my leg so he can hit me at the perfect angle.

“Jackson,” I gasp. “Oh, fuck—you. You are.”

He growls as he thrusts.

“Damn right, I am.”

And then—he flips me, spinning me onto my hands and knees.

I gasp, my cheek pressing into the sheets as he spreads me wide.

My body shakes, oversensitive, aching, desperate.

I feel his hand smooth over my ass, his thumb spreading me open as the head of his cock teases my entrance.

“You want me here, baby?”

He pushes in, just barely, just enough to make my body tense.

I whimper as he thrusts deep.

And I want every fucking inch of him.

“Mmmhmm.”

Another sharp smack lands on my ass.

My whole body shudders.

“I said,” he rasps, teasing me with shallow thrusts, making me feel every goddamn inch, every thick pulse of him, “do you want me here?”

“Yes!” I choke out, clawing at the sheets. “Please!”

His fingers twist into my hair, his grip firm, dominant, owning me.

“You like when I take my time?” His voice is thick with satisfaction. “Stretch you nice and slow?”

I nod frantically, already on the verge of another orgasm from nothing but his words, his teasing, his absolute fucking control over me.

He presses in deeper, deeper, deeper until he’s fully inside me.

Until I’m completely, utterly wrecked.

“Oh my god,” I sob.

His laugh is dark, smug, filthy.

“You can take it, baby.”

He grips my hips and fucks me with deep, dragging strokes, making sure I feel every goddamn inch of him.

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