Page 23 of The Coach

His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back, exposing my throat. He leans down, lips grazing my ear, his voice thick with need. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, baby? To be fucked rough like this?”

“Yes,” I pant, my body writhing against his. “Yes, Jackson. I like it rough. I love it.”

“Me too, baby. Me too. And I love how you keep up with me. It’s like you were made for me.”

His pace quickens—rough, deep, and unrelenting—driving into me with a force that leaves me breathless. The couch creaks beneath us, a steady rhythm matching the filthy sounds of skin on skin, the sharp slap of his hips meeting mine.

I moan, completely lost in him, in this, in us.

But then—he pulls out.

A desperate, empty ache clenches in my core, my body instinctively pushing back toward him. But before I can protest, he stands, adjusting his stance, his thick cock gleaming and still painfully hard.

And I can’t resist.

I drop to my knees in front of him, licking my lips, looking up through my lashes.

“I want to taste you,” I breathe, wrapping my fingers around him, feeling him twitch in my grasp.

A deep, animalistic groan rumbles from his chest. “Fuck, Ivy. You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.”

I flick my tongue over his swollen tip, savoring the salty taste of him before parting my lips and taking him into my mouth. He’s thick, hot, heavy on my tongue. I stretch my lips around him, sinking lower, pushing past my gag reflex as my hand twists around his base, stroking him in sync with every bob of my head.

Drool spills from the corners of my lips, dripping down my chin onto my bare chest. My fingers work over him, slick with spit, sliding with a tight grip as I take him deeper.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” His hand fists in my hair, his thighs tensing. “Look at you, baby. So fucking messy. So eager.”

I moan around him, the vibrations making him curse, his grip tightening.

His abs flex, his muscles locking up. He’s close.

But then—he yanks me back up.

“As much as I fucking love your mouth, I need to be inside you again. On your hands and knees,” he growls.

Heat rushes through me, my body instantly obeying.

Before I can catch my breath, he helps me spin me around, pressing me forward onto the couch, nudging my legs wider. “I wish I could take a photo of you right now. So damn hot.”

And then?

He drives into me in one long, deep thrust.

I gasp, my fingers digging into the cushions as he stretches me all over again, his cock pulsing inside me. His grip tightens on my hips, his thrusts turning desperate, relentless, perfect.

“Ivy.”

I cry out, the pleasure too much, too good, too consuming.

He flips me onto my back, on the couch, putting my legs close to my shoulders, forcing me to look him in the eye.

His breath turns ragged. His pace sharpens. His hands tighten.

His voice is a wrecked whisper at my ear. “Where do you want it? Your tits?”

I shudder, my body aching for him, my pulse racing.

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