Page 66 of Iron Roses

I just listen.

And I do exactly what she says.

I curl my tongue under the ridge of his cock—right beneath the tip—and suck gently, holding it in place. Then I flutter. Tiny movements. His entire body reacts.

He gasps, his grip tightens in my hair. His hips jerk forward, cock plunging deeper into my throat. I gag softly, but take it. His thighs are flexed, jaw clenched, and I feel the tension coil like a storm inside him.

He starts to thrust.

Not violently. But with rhythm. Purpose. His cock slides into my throat again and again, using my mouth like he can’t help it. Like I’ve taken away his control.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I don’t stop. I hold steady. I let him fuck my mouth, my hands gripping his thighs, throat flexing around him.

He rises from the tub first, water sheeting off his body in rivulets that trace every line of his chest, his thighs, his still-hard cock. He towers above me, breath ragged, eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on mine as he reaches down, wet fingers curling around my wrist.

No words.

He just pulls.

I follow, naked and dripping, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. My legs are unsteady, not from the water, but from everything he’s already taken from me—and everything I know he’s about to claim next.

We step out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind us, skin gleaming. He walks me across the room, water slicking our footsteps. The light is low, soft, but enough to cast shadows overthe bed, the wall—over the mirror atop the vanity table he leads me to.

He presses me forward until my palms meet the cool wood surface.

The mirror reflects both of us: me bent forward, hair clinging to my shoulders, nipples tight from the temperature and anticipation, thighs glistening. And him behind me—broad, dripping, cock heavy and full, hanging between his legs as he steps closer.

I keep my eyes on the mirror.

I watch him watch me.

His hands smooth over the curve of my ass, spreading me open. Then his fingers are there—again—sliding through my slick folds as if he’s reacquainting himself with what’s already his.

One finger slips in.

Then two.

They curl, deep knuckles grazing my entrance as his palm grinds against my clit. My mouth parts. I moan softly. My head falls forward, but he grips my hip with his other hand and pulls—a silent demand that I look.

So I do.

I meet his eyes in the mirror as his fingers fuck me from behind, the sound obscene in the quiet room. My thighs tremble.My breath fogs the mirror. His fingers curl again, right there, stroking that spot that makes my knees buckle.

And then he pulls out.

Then his cock presses against me the next breath, thick and hot at my entrance. He doesn’t ease in. He pushes hard—one deep, unrelenting thrust that fills me in one stroke. I cry out, eyes wide in the glass, watching the way my body takes him.

He’s inside me, deep, and he doesn’t stop. He thrusts again.

And again.

Wet skin slaps wet skin. My breasts bounce with every movement. His hands slide up, bold and rough, cupping them from behind, squeezing hard. His fingers roll over my nipples as he fucks me deep, bending lower over my back, his chest hot against my spine.

Our reflections blur from motion, from sweat, from steam.

My hands grip the vanity, knuckles white against the polished surface, palms slipping on the gloss as he thrusts into me—the sound of our bodies colliding echoing through the room. His cock drags against every aching nerve inside me, thick and relentless.

He shifts angles—adjusts his grip on my hips, plants his feet wider—and the next thrust slams into a spot so deep I choke on my breath, hips jerking back involuntarily. I gasp, loud, guttural, eyes fluttering in the mirror as pleasure jolts through me like electricity.

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